


Lance's Mission Impossible

by eccentrick



Series: The Wondrous Life of Lance [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Brief Underage Drinking, Developing Relationship, Ezor and Narti are gay for each other, Friendship, Gen, Heith - Freeform, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Lotor is unsure how feelings work, Lotor just doesn't know what pining is, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Snark, Trans Female Pidge | Katie Holt, Trust Issues, death of mentioned characters, light-hearted existential dread, like the slowest of burn, some unresolved sexual tension, well after season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-02-08 13:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12865929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eccentrick/pseuds/eccentrick
Summary: Lance is pretty sure he's too unqualified for this.[Wherein Lance is named the Ambassador between Prince Lotor and Team Voltron, and begins a series of missions where he slowly becomes an indispensable member of the team.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **READ THE FIRST PART BEFORE THIS ONE! YOU'LL BE CONFUSED OTHERWISE! Thank you!**
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> I promised I'd finish before posting but under certain circumstances and the threat of net neutrality I decided to go ahead. I hope I don't regret this decision. 
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> Thank you @miss-macabre-grey for looking through this first chapter! Along with @astersandstuffs (especially since she's not in the fandom even.)

Eyes flutter as they water, involuntary tears rolling down chilled cheeks. He blinks his bleary eyes, lashes sticky and heavy. Stepping out of a healing pod is never fun, and sometimes Lance wonders just what goes on within one.

Hunk immediately engulfs Lance within his warm embrace, strong arms lifting him above the ground. His semi-numb legs dangle, like Hunk is afraid if he lets Lance touch the ground he'll disappear within it.

“Oh, man, oh, man, Lance!” Hunk sobs. “I was worried I would never see you again!”

“Bro,” Lance says, getting just a little bit teary. He really missed his friend, okay?

“Don't ever do that again! Like, never. You are never allowed out of my sight again. Ever.”

Pidge cackles, greasy hair glinting in the light. “Hunk, buddy, I don't think that's possible. Saving the universe and all that.”

“Being taken against my will and all that,” Lance grumbles.

“I thought you weren't worried,” Keith asks, lurking a ways away from the group as always.

Hunk sets Lance down like he's porcelain, turning to the Black Paladin. “I thought he'd, like, live. I didn't say he'd be _okay, okay._ ”

“I can't believe my own teammate would mislead me.” Keith’s mouth quirks slightly, hands splayed where they're resting on his biceps. He's joking. With Hunk.

Lance side eyes his best buddy, who's still intent on baby talking him.

“Let's get you something to eat,” Hunk says, “I bet you weren't getting fed.”

Lance doesn't have the heart to tell Hunk that he ate like a king while held captive, so he stays silent. They're heading to the kitchen when Allura blocks the doorway. She sweeps Lance into a brief hug, the stirred air carrying the floral scent that always surrounds the Princess, before she stands up straighter and squares her shoulders.

“I apologize, Lance, but food will have to wait. We need to know where you've been for the past week.”

“Can't he at least eat while you interrogate him, Princess?” Hunk asks. Keith nods beside him, showing solidarity.

Lance really wishes that he'd felt this important and included _without_ being abducted and held hostage. But beggars can't be choosers, so he settles closer to his best friend and ruffles Pidge’s unruly hair, who willingly lets him this once.

Allura leads them to the kitchen. Once they get there, Lance notices how clean and empty it feels. And the crusted-on green goo on the wall from their first few days abroad is no longer there.

Hunk, being the best bro, goes about fixing Lance something to eat, while the Princess gives him a searching look.

“I'm fine,” he says, and he is. Probably the most fine anyone has ever been after being held captive.

“I need you to tell me everything you know,” is all Allura says, despite a collision of emotions circling around her irises.

There's a crash and a few childhood curses; Hunk is not very subtle when he tries to listen in.

“Well, the Galra attacked me a few minutes after I got to the moon. And, well, they roughed me up a bit.” He flexes his newly healed fingers. “And I was taken to a cell for a few hours. Or minutes. I'm not sure. It was really boring.”

Keith, standing close to Hunk, sighs and rolls his eyes. Heh.

“Anyway, then the Generals came and broke me out.”

“The Generals?!”

“I know, right? They totally broke me out, intimidated me a bit, and then fed me.”

“Was it any good,” Hunk asks.

“It was okay,” Lance fibs.

The Princess smooths out her skirt, a gesture she often does without knowing, even when she is wearing her Pink suit. She draws her hands back when she realizes it is one of those days.

She folds Lance into a sharp hug, strong arms squeezing the daylights out of him. It is like she needs to make sure he isn't a hologram, which, knowing her history, makes sense. She pulls back, tucks a stray hair behind her ear and gives him The Look™. The Miss Boss Lady Look™.

“I need to know everything you can tell me about your time there. And I know if you might have given them any information, accident or not.”

Lance sits on one of the bar chairs, deflating. Rationally, he knows it's a necessity to ask tough questions, but it just makes him feel like a snitch. Like an innocent driver suddenly racked with illogical feeling of guilt as soon as a cop pulls out behind them.

He knows he didn't do anything wrong.

“When was the last time I gave any useful information to _anyone?_ I don't think you have to worry. Though, I think Narti knows my whole life story by now.” At Allura’s glance he elaborates. “My entire life story prior to magical mechanical Lions.”

“Narti?” Pidge asks, adjusting her glasses. Lance feels an intense urge to poke her tiny nose and take her glasses.

“Tail, no eyes, seeing eye cat. That Narti.”

“The one that choked me with said tail,” Hunk huffs.

Lance winces. That did indeed happen.

“And, besides, Lotor was pretty chill compared to what I imagined.”

Lance is sure he sees one of Allura’s manicured eyebrows twitch. “Prince Lotor?!”

He laughs nervously. “Ah. About that.”

☆☆☆

Ezor stands on one leg as she uses Zethrid’s outstretched bicep to do pullups. “I can say, that went pretty well.”

“Better than I expected,” Acxa acknowledges.

Lotor hums, taking in the frenzied movements of his team as they playfully spar, so in sync it looks more like a violent dance.

Zethrid cracks her neck, baring her teeth at Lotor. When he doesn't flinch, nor give any reaction besides boredom, she shrugs. “Why do you sound so grumpy?”

Lotor is not one to answer Zethrid right after a test of strength, but he finds himself breaking yet another rule. It has been happening more often lately, the toeing of the unspoken line.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Acxa swipes at Zethrid’s legs, causing the General’s knees to buckle. Ezor topples with her, tucking and rolling while Zethrid just falls hard.

“Do not be so informal with his majesty,” she says, finally taller than her unruly counterpart, able to look down upon. Ezor is once again standing, long arms wrapped around Acxa’s torso, buzzing gleefully at the display of rank.

Lotor waves a hand, a casual gesture that feels, even now, might get him the back of a hand.

Zethrid sputters, hitting her fist on the metal floor with a solid thunk. “You know I did not mean it that way.”

“Yeah, so,” Ezor taunts, grinning.

Zethrid growls, and Ezor tenses. Acxa just gives the ceiling a tortured look and sighs, right before Ezor and Zethrid meet in a clash.

“Now, now, we all know that is just how Zethrid is. I feel no offense. Besides, every decent leader should be able to handle slight insubordination.” Lotor stands, taking deliberate steps. Zethrid peels Ezor off of her, looking at her Prince. “Come, let us prove who the stronger one is.”

When she sees the beckoning gaze, Zethrid gulps. The uncertainty is gone in an instant before she gets into position, a savage grin transforming her face into a wide display of bloodlust.

She never stands a chance.

☆☆☆

“Let me get this straight,” Keith says, for the fifth time, “We've been looking for Lotor for months, and you suddenly get “rescued” by his generals and a few days later you meet Lotor. Just like that, Lotor offers a truce.”

Lance leans back once again, feet folded atop the table. Allura has pinched his ears for doing the same thing just a week prior, and now she just glances at his slipper clad feet in subtle horror.

“I know, I hardly believe it myself! Maybe just the sight of me made him rethink his entire moral code.”

“Annnnd, he's officially back,” Pidge says, sighing. She facepalms to hide her smile, jolting when her glasses get in the way.

Hunk sets down a tray, slipping out of his oven mitts. He gently lifts Lance’s legs and places them underneath the table. “Did Lotor say when he will be dropping by?”

“You so look like a dad right now,” Lance replies. “I'm weirdly attracted to you right now.”

The Yellow Paladin bows slightly. “Hello, Weirdly Attracted, I'm dad.”

Pidge and Lance cackle up a storm. Coran and Allura just have their confused look about them. Keith looks vaguely pained. . .and something else.

Allura grimaces. “Let us stay on topic.”

“Oh, yeah. Okay, so no. He just told me he'd see me soon.”

“Do you mind giving his exact words?” Coran asks.

“That is basically what he said. He also have some daddy issues, like major daddy issues. I honestly don't blame him. I'd be emotionally barren if my dad was a the worst dictator in history.”

“That is no excuse.” Allura clenches her fist, eyes blazing. “He could have defected _years_ ago. If it was so heavy on his conscience, why wait so long?”

Everyone in the room glances at Lance, so many questions in their eyes. Questions that Lance probably doesn't have a chance in answering. He has to try anyway.

“I think he's going for the double agent kind of thing? Like, if he defected he wouldn't be able to get information and manipulate it.”

“That is the word: manipulate. How do we know if he isn't trying to trick us?”

Lance throws his arms up. “How should I know? From what I can see, he's being truthful. And we can record audio of our meetings if he does flake and betray any agreement. We can, like, release it to the public. So he'd have Galra after him as well as Voltron.”

With a considering hum, Coran says, “That is actually a pretty solid plan.”

“You don't have to sound so surprised!”

“It would be dangerous,” Allura says, sounding contemplative. “We’d have to do it in secret, and if they realize what we did we'd most likely breach any sort of agreement we managed to negotiate.”

Pidge shrugs. “But we know they'll be doing something similar. And I know a lot of ways to make any information we collect to be very hard to get to. And I have a feeling that Lotor’s generals aren't a genius when it comes to technology like me.”

Pidge looks at Lance for confirmation, and he finds that he really hates being the center of attention when it comes to these things. Class A clown, Lance can get behind. Informant of very important information? Nah.

“I'm not sure. Though, I don't think anyone can beat your. . .hacking skills? Computer skills. Whatever it's called. Anyway, you'd use encryption that is unfamiliar to them.”

“Like ones from Earth?”

“Yeah. Maybe we can even use something from every planet we've liberated so far!”

Pidge cups her chin in prime Thinking Mode™. She glances quickly over to Hunk, her genius buddy.

“That might work, but Hunk and I would have to memorize a lot of stuff in a short amount of time.”

“You've done it before! Besides, we don't have much time at all. From the way he was talking, he probably meant really soon. Like, maybe a day or two at most.”

She groans, leaning heavily into Hunk in animated despair. “How I wish we had space coffee. I'll have to pull a few all nighters.” She turns and glares at Lance. “I will be taking a short nap so I don't start hallucinating before Lotor makes his dramatic appearance.”

“Count me in, Pidge,” Hunk says, ushering her out of the kitchen. Keith promptly follows, giving Lance a wave before exiting.

After they leave Lance turns his attention back on Allura.

“So, is that a yes,” he asks. Even with great effort, it still comes out in a _pleeeease </i>tone. _

She glances at Coran, whose eyebrows are much closer to his mustache than strictly necessary. He is about ready to say something when Allura interrupts, “That is a maybe.”

Lance sags, all this talk tiring him out. Honestly, social interaction, especially with Allura, should energize him, but all he feels is rung out.

Allura softens, smiling slightly. “This is enough talk for today. Why don't you go lay down? The mice washed your sheets and fluffed your pillows, courtesy of the Princess of Altea.”

“Thank you, Allura,” he says, and means it. He's missed his bed, his sleep mask, and his skincare routine. Ugh, his skin.

He actually takes her suggestion, falling asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

☆☆☆

Hunk doesn't know what he was thinking. For some reason, Hunk figured as soon as Lance got back home, all his worry and anxiety and pent up  
aggression would go away. Vanish into space.

Now every worry has been replaced with another, and another, bigger and badder than before. It is a complete relief that Lance is back, intact mentally and physically, but with Lance came more worries. They followed him back, nipping at his heels.

Hunk doesn't blame Lance, of course not. He's just been so used to using Lance as a safety blanket, and now that safety blanket can't keep him warm any longer. He needs to become his own warmth, because, honestly, it's unfair to Lance to rely on him like that.

He realizes all of this on his way to check on Lance. It is an epiphany of sorts.

After looking everywhere he can think of, Hunk still hasn't found Lance. This sends him into a tizzy, because this is how it happened last time, but he makes himself breathe and think of one other place Lance could be.

It's always the last place you look, his moms would always say.

Hunk steps into the artificial pasture, the scent of manure barely even registering. He finds Lance here, stroking Kaltenecker, whispering to her in his calming way.

“Lance!”

Lance looks up, distracted from the task of getting ready to milk, and sends him a winning smile.

“Lance, you can't just. . .you can't just disappear in me like that.”

Realization flashes Lance’s features, causing him to abandon his perch next to Kaltenecker. He brings Hunk into a hug.

“I'm sorry man, I won't do it again.”

Hunk smiles, pounding heart appeased.

Once the apologetic expression leaves his face, Lance huffs and makes his way back to the cow.

“I am appalled and enraged! It looks like this poor girl hasn't been milked since I've been gone, and she has to be sore.”

Oh, well, this isn't what Hunk expected, but honestly, this isLance.

“I'm sorry Lance, but no one else knows how to, and we were busy looking for you.”

“Oh.” Lance turns his head, for sure to hide a private smile, and turns back. “But still, no matter whether I'm here or not, she needs to be milked. Why didn't Keith do it?!”

Hunk snorts. “Keith doesn't know how to either, Lance.”

“Well, he should! He's from Texas. They have, like, milking lessons in elementary school or something.”

“Uh. Where are you getting this information?”

“Uh, it's common sense.”

Shaking his head, Hunk says, “You know Keith is afraid of Kaltenecker, right?”

Lance gasps, jumping up and covering the cow’s ears, shushing her that she is the one upset. “It's okay girl, don't listen to those two meanies. You're beautiful, independent, and worldly. You don't need to be cherished by everyone to be who you really are.”

Kaltenecker moos apathetically. Lance nods his head like he understands. “We'll see how they feel when there's no milkshakes,” he says.

Hunk is so glad Lance is back.

☆☆☆

Lance knocks on Pidge’s door a few days later. Inside, he can hear a few crashes and shuffling before the door swings open. Pidge looks certified dead on her feet, bags bruising the underside of her eyes, only accentuated by the absence of glasses.

“What?” Pidge asks, rubbing her eyes, then answers her own question. “You can come in, I guess. Watch your step.”

He's hit with the smell of a few too many days without a shower, and something similar to cheetos. Lance doesn't wanna now how she got her hands on those. He also knows better than to try to snatch some, which is a great way to lose a hand. Or two.

“I was just making sure you were kidding about multiple all-nighters. And you smell.”

“It's the musk of genius,” Pidge says, moving junk to make a safe path to her bed, where her multiple laptops sit. Lance is seriously worried about them overheating and subsequently lighting Pidge’s entire room on fire, but if he says so, she'll just get angry. He'll just have to tell Hunk and have him and Shiro take care of it. Er, well, maybe not Shiro.

“Just sleep Pidge. You can even use my room if you want since this is a biohazard. I'll bunk with Hunk. Heh, that rhymed.”

“No,” Pidge gripes, not specifying what she's objecting. This level of Sleepy Pidge is hard to get any answers out of. She looks dead on her feet, and smells like it too. Lance itches to complain about seeing himself reflected off her greasy hair, but Sleepy Pidge is Scary Pidge.

“Before I forcibly make you sleep, can you tell if it's possible? Like, to make an uber security or whatever.”

She rolls her eyes. “It is not whatever,it is a mathematical feat of mega proportions. But yes, it is.”

He pats her back, directing her half asleep body to where it won't be in his way. Lance gets to cleaning off her bed, and even when he finds her stash of cheetos, extra hot, she doesn't comment, her eyes half-lidded and gaze not fully there. When he has that done, he once again directs her, leading her to the bed.

She sighs when she hits the bed, already basically asleep on top of the covers. And since he's not a heathen, Lance tucks her in, swaddling the blanket around her body like his mother used to. And just like he did with his younger siblings.

He's leaning over to turn the light off when she grasps his wrist, eyes more aware than before. “Are you really okay, Lance,” She asks blurrily.

“I'm okay, Pidge,” he replies, tone hushed. Pidge studies him, finds what she's looking for, and nods. She's asleep before her head even stops bopping.

The soft moment is broken when she turns and whacks Lance right in the face with her pointy elbow. He falls on his tush, none too surprised at the little gremlin’s strength. Lance just snorts fondly and quietly gets up, making as little possible noise as he exits.

☆☆☆

Lotor can admit when he is impressed.

After giving the Paladins fair warning of their arrival, Lotor is flanked by his generals as they make their way up the runway. It's wide enough so that all five of them can walk side by side, giving an united front that is likely to cause an effect on Team Voltron.

He can show that he's a team player. Under the right circumstances, of course.

“I can't wait to see Lance!” Ezor says, walking on her toes to look even taller than she already is. When Lotor glances over to give her a warning glance, she's now eye to eye. She's delighted by this, and makes a big deal of leaning her elbow onto his shoulder. He ignores her.

“Kinda wish that I could fight the larger female Paladin, she was almost as strong as me. It is not often I find a worthy opponent,” Zethrid says.

“No engaging without my say so. And if you're so desperate for an equal, spar with Narti.”

Kova yawns at that moment, licking her paws while eyeing Zethrid like a one of those ridiculous treats the General indulges her with. Zethrid folds her arms and pouts. How typical. He smirks.

“You can't argue with the truth,” Ezor adds, “Your capush gets handed to you by her every time. Almost as easily as Prince Lotor.”

Lotor listens to another good-natured argument between the two, the contrast of high taunts and low growls creating a white noise of sorts. It allows him to slip into an awareness that silence does not provide.

Walking, he observes the castle. As he has mentioned, it is impressive. His only complaint is of the obnoxiously bright lights hidden in every fixture around every corner.

When he senses presences, not including those of his Generals, Lotor lifts his palms and retracts his claws. It is time to be charming _ _ _._ _ _

The others get into stance, attempting to look as non-menacing as possible. Considering the company, Lotor can guess it is of slight villainy stances and glances.

Plastering on a gentle smile, Lotor approaches. Princess Allura is where her former armor, hair in an elegantly simple bun. Her hands are clasped in front of her, knuckles drastically lighter than her skin tone, skin pulled tight over bone.

Not happy to see him, is she?

Beside her is the impostor Black Paladin, face grim and uncomfortable, brows set low on his face. Lotor supposes he might be feeling an uncanny sensation being in his presence, similar that of his father’s witch.

A Paladin in red armor stands in the outskirts, glaring. Lotor directs a docile look towards him.

Ezor is two steps ahead of him, when it comes to analyzing her surroundings. Once she's fixated on something, she can pinpoint that person or thing from a crowd of thousands. “Where’s Lance?”

When Allura gives her a startled glance, Ezor says, grinning deviously, “Ya know, Red Paladin, beautiful brown skin.”

Allura smiles sharply. “Yes. We have Lance, and Hunk, preparing our dinner.”

The one in red glares at Allura, then burning eyes are directed at Lotor before he's storming off. Daring. And horribly impulsive. Kuron gives a distasteful grimace like he knows this as well, eyes trying to trail after him.

“I sincerely hope that they have at least one diplomat,” Acxa whispers, looking rightfully unimpressed.

“Why was the small scowl-y one in red? I thought Lance was the Red Paladin?” Zethrid grumbles.

“I think they're just too lazy to switch,” Ezor chirps.

Acxa hushes them so Lotor doesn't have to. How amusing. His Generals have complaints about Voltron’s diplomacy, while acting like children themselves.

“Be quiet. Stay alert and don't say a word. Starting now.”

They all become silent in an instant, the only noise coming from the click of Zethrid’s teeth slamming shut and the steady hum of the Castle.

Walking with military precision, they make their way to what must be the dining hall. Inside sits the Yellow Paladin and Red Paladin, who are flanked by the Black and Green Paladin, and finally at the head is Princess Allura, who has to be the Blue Paladin. At least, that is what makes sense. But wearing the correct Lion-correlated colored armor makes sense as well.

“Hello, Princess of Altea. This castle is simply magnificent. It is an honor to be given this generous offer.”

“Likewise, Prince Lotor of the Galran Empire. And you are being too kind, it is you that has given us such a grandeur opportunity. It is almost too good to be true,” Allura says, smiling with enough polite venom that is impressive even to Lotor.

As they sit, he can hear over the clatter and shuffling, “Why did that sound anything but grateful? Sounds like they might brawl right here, right now.” Lance is whispering to the Yellow Paladin from the side of his mouth.

Lance glances up and meets his eyes. Realization settles in when he realizes he's been heard, but Lotor looks away before the Paladin can say anything incriminating. Surprise and guilt flashes at the corner of his eyes, but he ignores that as well. It is going to be down to business.

He smiles genially. “Now, before we begin, I would like to ask for a certain condition.”

Knowing she is in no position to argue, Allura smiles back sharply, “And what is this condition you speak of?”

“I would like the first talk to be between you and I. And the Red Paladin, if entirely possible.”

Lance points to himself in disbelief. “You mean me?”

“Is there any other Red Paladin available?” Lance glances shortly to the Black Paladin, then shakes his head.

“May I so graciously inquire why you ask? Whatever plan or mission you want to implement includes every one of these Paladins, surely?”

It is a battle of barbed politeness, fake smiles, and shallow tones. Lotor lives for these moments, because they are so easy to control.

Before he can make his case, Lance the Red Paladin steps in. “Allura, let's just do what he asks. It'd be two against one if he does anything, and those odds are even greater since we know the layout of the ship. Let's give this a chance.”

After a pause, the Princess relents. “I suppose. Give us some time, Team Voltron.”

“But how can you trust-”

“Keith, buddy,” Lance interrupts, “Not now.”

“Yeah,” Yellow Paladin says, “Let's Lance this time around. He was held captive by the dude for a week.”

“Exactly, Hunk, held captive!”

Hunk gives him a long look before saying, “Keith.”

And like magic, the Black Paladin huffs and aggressively nods.

Lotor does not bother to say anything until the rest file out, his Generals close behind. He ponders on whether he should have requested that the teams be segregated, but perhaps this will be the test run on relations _ _ _._ _ _

“I am glad that is out of the way,” Lotor says once a tense silence is heavy enough. Lance is visible relieved, as he seems to be on who opposes such quietness.

Allura holds onto it for a few more precious tocks. She manages to pull herself together and plasters on a perfectly diplomatic expression.

“So, what is so confidential that only us three can hear it? And, no offense Lance, why is he allowed to stay?”

Lance looks at his flat hands on the table, before leaning and gently nudging the Princess. He gives her a meaningful look, gaze steady as he says, “Because I know something. Something pretty important and scary.”

The Princess is startled, eyes darting quickly between Lance and Lotor. “And what is that?”

___“___ Shiro _ _ _. . .___ isn't _ _ __our____ Shiro _ _ _.”_ _ _

It is then when all openness in her face shuts down. Lotor knows it will take great of strength to pry it open.

As he is about to speak, Lance does it for him. “Allura, you had to have noticed the difference between Shiro since he's been back.”

“He was held by an evil Empire for the second time, Lance.”

“I know it's hard to believe,” Lance replies, eyes open and earnest, “But just think about it for a few ticks before shutting it down completely. It makes sense, doesn't it? Shiro has been acting strange, as I said. His escape makes absolutely no sense, and his hair was way too grown out for the short time he was missing.”

Allura’s face begins to sour with realization.

“And, Princess, the way he talked to Keith when he got back. Yeah, totally not our Shiro. And, and, he didn't even greet me when I got back. I may not be an old friend like Keith, or practically family like Pidge, but I'm still a teammate. And Black didn't take him back.”

“I see,” the Princess says.

Presumably finished, Lance looks at Lotor. It is his turn, apparently, and he is happy to oblige.

“It is a program called Kuron.” He pauses, allowing Allura to get a grip on her bearings. “It is designed by my father's favorite witch, Haggar. He has all the memories your Paladin does, as well as emotions, but perhaps that is a little rusty as Lance has revealed that he is not blending in sufficiently.”

Lance huffs. “She probably figured we're desperate enough to overlook any weirdness.”

“Yes. . .weirdness as the Red Paladin said.” The foreign word feels strange and ridiculous on his tongue. What kind of word is ‘weirdness’? So informal.

“What is the objective of this?” Allura asks. “To get information?”

Lotor nods, pleased that he does not have to explain. “Precisely.”

“I see,” she repeats. “How do I know you're not lying through your Galran teeth?”

Lance covers his face and groans, like he wants to shield himself from an ensuing brawl of words.

“Fair point. But, you see, I have things to gain if we were to enter an alliance. My father, thanks to the witch, is beginning to become suspicious of me. He is recovered enough I predict he will be calling upon me to take back the title.”

“That evil lizard is still kicking?”

That cracks an ironic smile from Lotor, given without prior thought. “Yes, fortunately for me. I have no need to be handed the throne. Besides, it will give our team and I more time and less scrutiny to do what I plan.”

“Woah, woah, our team?”

“If your Princess agrees to it.”

Four eyes on her and a few ticks later, Allura is done contemplating. Her eyes are fiery and narrowed, a strength behind them an untapped well of fury. If he were planning to double cross her, this would be the moment he rethought that notion.

“I will give you no mercy if you or your Generals bring harm to the my Paladins, or the resistance. You are from privilege, and have little fear for your life. From the moment on, that could change. But, reluctantly, I agree.”

An entire lifetime of weight is lifted from his shoulders, and he is unsure whether he enjoys the way he can breathe easily.

“Now that that is out of the way, let me tell you of our plans. The others are welcome back in, if we do not mention certain matters _ _ _.”_ _ _

___☆☆☆_ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, I'm early! I'm celebrating getting the sequel to 25k, and the series to 40k! I'm pretty excited.
> 
> I'm also super nervous about my depictions of Lotor...hopefully I do him justice. And I'm attempting Plot, which is always scary. 
> 
> Beta'd by miss-macabre-grey! She has a great Lancelot one-shot in the works, her writing blog @artistic-grey-hero, and her ao3 being the miss-macabre-grey, so make sure to check it out!
> 
> Enjoy!

Lance wants to pat himself on the back. So he does. 

Everything is going all according to keikaku. 

(Note: Keikaku means plan.)

They did everything they needed to like a well greased machine before clean energy was implemented. Well, Keith was supposed to protest a bit more, but no one but Lance can resist the wide, sweet eyes of Hunk, so he can see why the poor guy backed down in the end. It felt more authentic, as well, so beggars can't be choosers. Then again, Lotor wasn't suppose to ask for Lance to be the _ambassador,_ for crow’s sake. 

Is he suspicious that Team Voltron will want something as a plan B? Like, recording the entire exchange in case things go south? But really, it should honestly be assumed, since despite whatever agreement that might be ratified, they would be looking out for themselves. 

The recording. _The recording that Pidge will most definitely listen to. The one that reveals her super important big brother figure is a fake._

Oh, quiznak. 

“We have a small, itsy bitsy, teeny weeny problem, Allura.” 

Coran perks up from his bent position, “A small, what now?” 

“Okay, don't kill me, but Pidge has the recording.” 

Allura looks at him like he's daft. “That she does.” 

“No, you don't understand, _Pidge has the very special recording.”_

The Princess’s eyes go blank with shock, quickly morphing into disbelief. “How could we be so careless?!” 

Lance throws his hands in the air, because, of course, his big plan has a major flaw that has the ability to jeopardize any type of necessary secrets. He's just that type of guy. 

“Maybe she won't listen to it?” Coran adds, a hopeful lilt in his voice. Allura told him about the whole Kuron-Shiro thing, advisor privilege of course.Lance gives a pointed glare towards Allura, who looks away with a casual awkwardness. He shakes his head; no one can be mad at the Alteans for long, and especially not over something so important. 

Sighing, Lance wants someone to hit him upside the head. Maybe he should ask Keith. “She's Pidge. Nosy to the core. And, besides, she did encrypt it. Of course she's going to listen to what she did so much work to protect.” 

Coran and Allura wince at the same time, finally understanding the seriousness of the situation. Lance honestly can't blame them, since it's not like he has much practice in serious talks. 

“I'll go take it from her,” Allura says, heading towards the door. Lance gently grabs her shoulder, holding her lightly in place. 

“What will you tell her when you do?” 

“I'll tell her I am Princess Allura, daughter of King Alfor, and it's part of my ship.” 

Just knock him out now, Keith. “No, no, _Princess,_ that is not the way to go about it. She'll just be hurt and angry and do whatever she can to get ahold of it.”

“I think he's right, Princess,” Coran says, rubbing his mustache in contemplation. 

“Just let me handle this, okay? It's my mess anyway.” 

She shakes her head, “Lance, I was a part of it as well. You cannot put all the blame on your shoulders.” 

Shrugging, he replies, “It's whatever. She can't listen to it for multiple reasons, but what I worry about is it hurting in the same place her brother’s disappearance did.”

He's out the door before Allura can disapprove, walking briskly and totally non-suspiciously towards Pidge’s room. His heart is echoing in his ears and pulsing within his fingertips, nervous sweat beginning to coat his back. 

Almost sliding and falling down in his attempt, he opens her door without permission. 

Light from her laptop illuminates her face, erasing the dark circles, giving her face a slight gaunt look to it. Her headphones, back from the loan she gave Lance, is thrown across the room. 

He's too late. 

“Pidge. . .”

“I knew,” she says, voice hollow. “I knew, and I still. . .I still wanted to believe. So bad. I so badly wanted it to be Shiro that I ignored all the signs.” 

He wraps an arm around Pidge lightly, keeping touch at a minimum. She leans heavily into the comforting embrace, jamming her head into Lance’s bony shoulder. 

“Why does everyone who’s like a brother leave?” She asks wetly. “First Matt and Shiro. Then Shiro _again._ And then you, and soon, you _again.”_

At this moment, Pidge sounds like the fifteen year old she is, and Lance feels helpless at his young eighteen. In space, where time is almost impossible to measure, it's all too easy to forget that they're just teenagers and young adults, barely equipped to handle regular life, let alone an intergalactic war. 

“I won't be gone forever, Pidge,” he says. “And I'll still have my comm on me at all times. I can nag you to sleep from light-years away.” 

“You know there's no guarantee. And you'll be with Lotor and his Generals, who can betray us at any time.” 

Squeezing tighter, he lets himself think about the possible dangers of being within the ranks of Lotor’s Generals, and Lotor himself. There's so many that he can't fit them all in his mind, so he just doesn't think about it at all. Compartmentalizing, the coping method of champions. 

“And something's bothering me a lot about the cloning. Firstly, where's the real Shiro? And secondly, how can _he,_ the clone, know the difference? He's just as much as a victim as us. His entire existence is of lies and falsehoods. I almost feel bad for _him.”_

Ah, another thing growing dust in the confines of his mind. 

“I do too, Pidgette.” 

They sit there for a long time, longer enough for his legs to grow numb, for the arm wrapped around Pidge to ache. But longer still they wait. For what, Lance can only guess. The silence grows more awkward the more he over thinks, and he pulls away just as Pidge speaks.

“What are we going to do?” 

He replies with, “Heck if I know,” causing Pidge to go off in peals of crazed laughter. 

“I think I do,” Pidge says, “We watch him, Kuro, and find out how he gets information to Haggar. Maybe get the information from Lotor, while fact checking it ourselves.” 

_“Kuro?_ Weeb.”

Pidge shoves Lance with enough force to knock him over, but it does the trick. A weight is lifted briefly, in Pidge’s room. He knows as soon as he makes his way back to his room, the crushing burden of grief and reality will root him to his bed. 

☆☆☆

With the ship safely docked, Lotor can relax, if only minutely. He has accomplished what he has come here to do, and with a great deal less resistance than anticipated.

Leaning back into his commander chair, hands steepled, Lotor opens a channel of communication, his Generals quieting. 

“Prince Lotor,” Haggar says, the grating voice causing his teeth to set on edge. 

“Haggar, how lovely to see you.” 

Without so much a glance at him, Haggar sneers. “Is it done?” 

“Ah, that,” he says like it's something he could forget. He has learned that Haggar especially hates feigned casual ignorance, even for the sake of politeness. Why try to deduce something when you can just scrape it from their minds? “Of course. It is a complete success.” 

“Are they suspicious?” 

Humming, he fauxs contemplation. “No more than to be expected, since I have been very. . .antagonistic towards them as of late.” 

“Just do as I've planned,” Haggar snaps. “Kuron has not been as useful as I had hoped. Do not fail, Prince Lotor. Your Empire needs you to be useful for once.” 

Lotor grits his teeth, ignoring the worried glance Acxa shoots him. “As I resolve to do, for the sake of our righteous Empire.” 

“Just do as you're told, Prince,” She says in her signature dismissive way. He has to quell a smirk that itches to spread, tearing his face in a savage display of satisfaction. 

_“Vrepit Sa,”_ he says just as the projection dissipates, leaving him alone within his ship once again.

“Scan for trackers or any interference,” Lotor orders, all bark and no bite. Clenching his hands into fist, he forces himself to relax. “I would appreciate it if it was done in a timely manner.” 

At his orders, his Generals start their routine of checking every system and every nook and cranny within the ship itself for any trackers or possible listening devices. They've had enough practice that they move by muscle memory, similar to an efficient dance. 

When they're done, they repeat and repeat until Lotor is satisfied with their temporary privacy. Finally finished, Ezor sits on Narti’s lap, reclining with enough dramatic flare that everyone else with eyes have to roll theirs. Ezor sighs, pretending to wipe sweat off her brow. 

“We know you have no sweat glands,” Zethrid mutters, panting. The heat of the ship has gotten to her, as she lays across the cold metal floor. 

“I have a question,” She says, not rising to the bait. He sighs inwardly. This means she is asking something she truly desires to know. 

“Go on.” 

“Which side are we on? I mean, I'll follow whatever your decision is, Prince Boss, but I kinda don't want to double cross Lance.” 

Resting his cheek within the palm of his hand, he replies, “Do try not to get too attached. And as of right now, we are on both. Ours. I prefer to stick to Team Voltron, for I resent having anything to do with that wicked wench. But should things with Voltron not work out, we will have no option but to crawl back on our pathetic knees to my father.” 

Acxa nods. “Noted.” 

Ezor goes back to her dramatics, this time inspecting her claws with a fixed expression. Unease crawls beneath Lotor’s skin. 

The greatest strength and the greatest flaw that all his Generals share is that of loyalty. Loyalty to their Empire, no. But to one or more persons? Anything is possible. Once they find someone they deem worthy of protecting, or following, they do whatever they think is right when it comes to the object of their loyalty. 

And right now, Lotor knows he should not count himself within their ranks. 

Cranking his knuckles, Lotor contemplates whether the Red Paladin is the correct choice. For one, his Generals are fairly fond of him, but it is possible that that can become a bad thing down the road. He initially chose Lance because of his versatility; going from the Blue Lion to the Red Lion is a big deal. It means his ability to adapt is staggering. That is what Lotor needs. 

But, perhaps, he is too adaptive. He is supposed to tentatively work parallel to the Generals, not have the potential to become one. 

Well, no need to fret. It is already done and decided.  
“Acxa, Ezor, Narti,” they all stand at attention. “Did you all get measured and fitted for your suits?” 

“Aye, aye, Prince,” Ezor says, “I think they were surprised by how long my legs are.”

Acxa gestures to herself and Narti. “Yes, my Prince, all of us have.”

“It's so unfair that I have to stay behind!” Zethrid groans. “What makes you think I am the best fit for this prissy castle? What do the rest have that I don't?” 

“There is no way you can pass for a rebel like Narti,” Lotor says in his most placating tone. “Besides, you can do the most damage to the castle in the shortest amount of time.” 

Zethrid puffs out her chest at that, finally standing. Ezor worryingly fidgets with her horn. “Are you sure I shouldn't be the one to stay behind, with my invisibility and all?” 

“No. We do not want to be the ones to breach contract.”

“We already are,” Zethrid says, leaning over Ezor and Narti to pet Kova. 

Lotor smiles at his Generals, the closest thing he has to a true one. “That is besides the point. And I am sure that your precious Lance has already spoken of the abilities that he knows of.” 

Ezor perks up. “And no one will suspect Zethrid of being able to spy with her loud, flat feet!” 

“What did I ever do to you, Ezor?” She huffs, but she is grinning. Plucking Ezor off Narti’s lap, Zethrid hurls Ezor across the room, charging after her. 

Zethrid does, in fact, have loud, flat feet.

☆☆☆

This is beginning to become a habit. Hunk weaves through the metallic halls, searching for Keith like his life depends on it.

Why does everyone he knows isolate themselves in times of high emotions? He gets it somewhat, because, well, he gets too emotional at times as well, but _come on. Will Hunk even be able to be the upset one without the others falling apart?_

Hunk stops mid stride and almost falls flatly on his face. He's only began holding everyone together since Lance has been gone. That means that Lance must have done a pretty great job of it before he went missing. It's only been a week and a few days, and already Hunk is so exhausted. Did Lance have to deal with all of this since they got to the Castleship? 

They all really need to get their quiznaking stuff together. Especially with Lance leaving on mission and everything. Lance, leaving. On a mission. Away from them, a mission light-years away. Without any of them. Alone.

Alone with Lotor and all his lackeys. 

Hunk isn't happy about this. 

Luckily, Keith is much easier to find this time. He sits in his chair at the deck, watching the projections of what planets are part of the coalition. The sickly purple seems to consume everything, causing Hunk’s stomach to do a swoop similar to when he does too many spins in Yellow. 

“Keith,” Hunk says, letting him know Hunk is there. Keith is unsurprised, turning to Hunk with the ghost of a smile gracing his lips. In his lap is his Blade of Marmora knife, the strange handle glowing dimly in the gloom. 

“I wondered when you'd find me.” 

Hands on his hips, Hunk asks, “What's that supposed to mean?” 

Keith shrugs. “You seemed upset about Lance leaving so I figured you'd try to find me or Pidge. Lance is with Pidge right now, so.” Keith smile turns sad. “Besides, you wouldn't let yourself be upset, which why you cope by helping others, while, uh, ignoring your own. I guess.”

Hunk plops down, leaning against Keith's, _wow,_ strong legs. “Okay, what I wanna know, is, like, how you ignore your own emotions but you seem to get mine. You're so weird, buddy.” 

“I know.” Keith plays his index finger against the tip of the blade, the skin surrounding the sharp point. Hunk really wants to look away, even snatch the creepy knife away from him, but it's Keith, and he can't seem to look away. Keith would probably take out Hunk’s bangs on reflex alone if he tried anything.

“Like, I don't mean in a weird, er, bad way. I'm weird, Lance is weird, Pidge is like, triple weird. We're all weird. Catch my drift?”

“Consider it caught,” Keith confirms. He's fidgeting with the knife even more, setting off Hunk’s fickle sweat glands. “Anyway, you can be, well, upset about Lance. Everyone is. But, you're his best friend. So. Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows edges on awkward, but after awhile seems to settle. Keith sheaths his knife, doing a great service to Hunk’s poor nerves. 

“So. Lance is with Pidge.”

“Yeah. . .I saw her storm down the hall. She looked. . . upset. About Lance, I think. She's never looked that upset before, that I've seen.” 

“Do you think. . .it's a family thing?” Keith’s face pales and then reddens at Hunk’s guess. Hunk feels a similar simmer of worry as well, but it's best not to jump to hysterics. 

“If Lotor or his Generals do anything, and Lance gets hurt. . .” Keith stops, fists clenched. 

“I don't think so. Lotor and his team went back to their lair right away, I don't think Pidge even really saw them without us with her. Besides, Lance can handle most anyone by disarming them with his annoying charm. And Allura would skin anyone who hurts her Paladins. So, if they're smart, they wouldn't risk it.” 

“That makes sense. Must just be a Lance thing.” 

This time it's Hunk saying, “Yeah.” What else is he supposed to say? This is the most serious conversation he's had with Keith, especially without Lance as a segue.

Keith speaks again before Hunk can panic too much. “You know, you could, uh, have a Lance moment too, and I'd stay with you. Since I think I've already had one, and, well, we all need someone. . .” Keith makes a sound of disgust, at his own awkwardness, Hunk assumes. “Someone to, to be a buffer.” 

“Are you sure? I could have a mean right hook, and my Lance meltdown might include a sucker punch.” 

Keith smiles tentatively, shaking his head at Hunk’s horrible terminology, most likely. “Go ahead. It's what healing pods are for.” 

“I don't think Coran and Princess Allura would approve.” 

Keith slides down to sit next to Hunk on the floor, sitting on his knees. He leaves a few inches of space between them, but Hunk takes those bits of space when he leans against the other Paladin, almost knocking him over with the weight difference. Keith seems to get over his surprise and pushes back, almost throwing Hunk to his side. 

They settle into a gentle quiet, the only light in the room being the meager projections of their meager successes. Somehow, that doesn't seem to deter nor worsen Hunk’s mood. 

He's glad he looked for Keith.

☆☆☆

Lance lies awake. Shutting his eyes tight, he can feel a wall of emotions and adrenaline block his way into sleepy oblivion. He doesn't expect to get any sleep tonight, and resigns himself to a useless existence tomorrow. 

He's nervous, but who wouldn't be? He might have a modicum of trust in the Generals, but he still doesn't know what to make of Lotor. His fake generosity makes Lance pause, because if there is one thing Lance truly dislikes, besides, ya know, Zarkon the evil overlord, it is the absence of true emotions. The stifling of empathy. 

The mission has a great deal of risk with it, but he finds that isn't what really bothers him. Lance is used to the prospect of dying at this point, and he knows that the others will do anything to stop an untimely demise. What he doesn't like is the the way he'll just disappear and have a good chance of never returning. It feels like leaving his family to wonder, all over again. 

If he dies, so be it. But he'll do his absolute best to make it as flashy and as ridiculous as possible, maybe become a hero. 

He can imagine Hunk sobbing on his ashes, turning them to paste. Pidge would probably try to clone him, ironically. Keith would brood a little more, the weight of Lance’s death a little heavy on his shoulders. Allura and Coran will be sad, but they're survive, Lance being a mere blimp on the radar compared to losing their whole race. But still, like a selfish idiot, Lance smiles softly at the prospect of being missed. 

He'll do what he has to. He tries not to think of what might happen should Voltron be needed, but he understands that this is the best thing. They can find Shiro, or even Matt, or any worthy rebel, and replace him. Lance doesn't like thinking about it, but he's as burden that is about to be lifted. 

There's a knock on the door, jarring Lance from the tailspin of negative thoughts. He silently thanks whoever interrupted his pity party, slips his feet into his Lion slippers and makes his way to his door. 

He expects to see Hunk or Pidge, even Keith, but instead, Shiro, well, Kuro stands at the doorway, looking sheepish. “I, uh, can I come in?” 

Lance blinks, mind stalling before going into overdrive. Did Kuro catch on?! Was he here to confront Lance?! 

“I can go, if you want,” Kuro continues, shoulders slumping. 

“No, no. I was just half asleep, is all,” Lance lies. “Come in.” 

“I won't stay long, I promise.” Kuro looks down, shifting between legs in a nervous manner. 

Lance isn't sure how he ever thought this was their Shiro. This one, Kuro, is awkward and unsure, and follows Keith around like a baby duck. Shiro has always had a genuine, all American kind of charisma, even after captivity, and Kuro is awkward and nervous, always ready to jump out of his skin. Lance finds that he feels sorry for him, and he truly hopes that this guy isn't going to become a real enemy. 

“I wanted to wish you good luck.” 

Lance nods, face softening. “We're having a goodbye breakfast tomorrow, dude. You didn't have to go out of your way to wish lil’ ol’ me.”

Kuro shrugs, eyes locked on Lance’s slippers. “I felt bad that I didn't even come see you when you got back. We were all so worried.” 

“I get it, I get it. I wouldn't wanna walk outta bed to greet me either.” 

Kuro sighs. “Lance.”

“I'd run,” Lance grins. He sits on his bed and pats the space beside him. Kuro shakes his head and angles his shoulders towards the door. A person without eyes could tell that he doesn't want to be here. 

Okay, Lance can admit that Shiro and his doppelganger are more similar than just looks, but only enough to make Lance miss the real Shiro. 

“I know. . .I haven't been the person, the leader, that everyone needs me to be. And I've let you all down. I should be pushing, becoming better, but I still feel so. . .shaken.” 

This guy. Lance wants to facepalm in pity, because, holy crow, it seems like this dude doesn't know that he's an impostor, that there is no way, no matter what, that he could take the imprinted place that Shiro left behind. It'd be like asking a cat to be a lion. 

“Shiro, my buddy, relax. I understand. You were taken not once, but twice by those nasty Galra. Well, Galra Galras, not rebel or Blade of Marmora Galra. Anyway, surviving the Galra Galra once is a magical feat, let alone twice.” 

Shiro, not-Shiro frowns, but then he nods anyway. His shoulders relax minutely. 

The poor guy looks at him, practically begging for an opening to leave, Lance can tell. Feeling particularly merciful, and perhaps a bit resentful that this isn't _his_ Shiro, he says his goodnight, thanking Kuro for his visit. 

Kuro bows shallowly, turns and runs into the door that is set to have to be opened manually. Fumbling, he manages, but not before flushing and rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. 

Once he leaves, Lance can feel his eyelids growing heavier. Pulling his eye mask back in place, Lance drifts into a thick sleep, dreaming that he's fumbling in the dark, ready to fall at any moment. 

☆☆☆

Lance knows that they're planning a going away party of sorts, but he still finds in within his duty to act surprised. Pidge snorts and flicks a bit of space goo towards him, Keith and Hunk moving to sit next to each other. 

Coran even brings out the Altean booze, allowing each Paladin one glass, citing the need to always be ready to fight and “drinking and piloting a ten thousand year old lion is bad.” They all just snort. Lance supposes that if Coran knew of the American drinking age, he'd give them all just a sip.

Lance likes to pride himself in being. . .not manly, because that's just the jerk thing to say, but, perhaps, adventurous. But the first sip feels like liquid fire, even worse than the vodka that a few Garrison parties used to (illegally) have. He isn't the only one having trouble either. Heck, Hunk pukes right in Keith's lap. 

“I'm so sorry, oh quiznak, kill me now. Make it quick and painless.” Hunk groans, hands covering his eyes in horror. Pidge eyes Keith's lap from across the table, covering her nose and looking away. 

Keith seems only slightly disturbed. “It's okay, Hunk, that stuff was pretty strong.” 

“Hey!” Lance accuses. “If I did that, you'd skin me and then wear it like a trophy! There'd be a memorial engraving in my seat that would say, ‘Herein sat Lance, now regularly worn by Paladin of Voltron.’” 

Keith has the audacity to look confused, his expression obtuse. “But it's Hunk.” 

“We can see,” Allura says, looking green. Coran has a similar look, as he refuses to look anywhere near Keith. “Perhaps you should clean up, Keith.”

Keith excuses himself. Hunk is still half dead, leaning against Lance. 

“This is great,” Pidge says. “Like, the best going away gift for Lance. Now you'll have a going away blackmail.”

“Who would I use it on? Everyone is here.” 

Rolling her eyes, she says, “You're so uncreative.” 

Lance adds another tally on the Never Mess With Pidge List. 

He has to smile despite the gross going away gift. Only his friends. 

☆☆☆

When Lotor’s ship arrives the waterworks truly begin. Lance can see tears glisten the crease of Pidge’s eyes as she hugs him, his ribs creaking under the prolonged pressure of her monster squeeze. Hunk isn't even trying to keep it together, big, fat tears coursing down his face like a river, sobs muffled against Lance’s shoulder. Keith (with clean pants) is more subdued, not knowing how much to touch nor say, or really anything. Lance pulls him into a side hug, drawing a surprised grunt from the moody Paladin. 

Allura is wringing her hands. Coran stands beside her, holding a frilly handkerchief to his damp eyes like he's going to wave it at Lance at any moment, like an old fashioned wife waving goodbye to her Navy spouse at sea. Lance laughs at the picture, earning him an odd look from both Alteans. 

The Princess smells of sadness and hard work, wrapping her arms around him. Coran follows, along with Pidge, Hunk, and Keith, Kuro being the last to join. 

The group hug draws the tears from Lance’s eyes at last, the only dry one in the room until now. He can feel the love, can feel that he is an important cog on the Voltron machine, leaving a Lance sized space behind. It’s lucky he’s not that tall. 

As they become seven individuals once again, Allura grasps Lance’s hands within her own. 

“It is an Altean custom to not say any farewells when a fellow soldier goes on a mission. It speaks as though we do not expect those to come back. So I will not say anything but good luck, and I look forward to seeing you soon.”

“You better keep in touch, young man,” Coran says. “See you sooner, rather than later, comrade.” 

“See ya later, alli _hater,_ ” Pidge says, punching him in his shoulder. 

Hunk is still sobbing. “I'M GOING TO MISS YOU SO MUCH, BRO! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITHOUT YOU?!” 

“Be careful,” Kuro says. “Be careful.” 

Keith nods at that and adds, “You'll do good, Lance.”  
Lance sure hopes so. There's only the entire universe at stake. 

☆☆☆

Lance is honestly surprised by the warm welcome he receives as he makes his way back to the ship. Narti taps him on the back with her tail, which Lance likes to think constitutes a hug from her. Ezor squeals in delight, embracing him with her arms in a friendly chokehold. Acxa smiles softly next to them, nodding at him in acknowledgement. 

“Never thought I would say this, but I missed you all. I'm sorry I just missed seeing Zethrid.” 

Lotor has an expression that makes Lance think he's forcing himself not to roll his eyes. “Zethrid is still, should I say. . .upset about staying behind.” 

“She's pouting,” Acxa deadpans, contradicting the soft look transforming her face into something almost non-threatening. 

“Like a baby,” Ezor agrees, looking towards her left. “Even Narti was losing her patience, right Narti?” Narti nods. 

Ezor throws an arm fully around his shoulders, bringing his ear to her mouth. She mock whispers, “Now I can actually show you around, since we're on the same side!” 

Lotor sighs. “Within reason.” 

“So that means I can't show him your haircare products? Or your walk-in-closet?”

Sputtering, Lance says, “I knew he had a hair care routine! And what is in this closet, different pairs of the same uniform? 

Ezor leans in even more, and pretends to tell him all the major deets, as she instead says, “Have patience.” 

“Ezor!” Acxa exclaims, “Show respect to His Majesty!” 

Pulling away, Ezor smirks. Lance is sort of freaking, glancing to Lotor. Instead of looking incensed, there is only mild annoyance, and should he speculate, the fond kind. Definitely not the look Lance expects from the son of an evil overlord that throws away lives like they're worth the dirt under his nails. If he has any. 

Maybe this won't be so bad. 

☆☆☆

This is bad. Like, the baddest. 

“I can't believe the nerve!” Lance mumbles as he adjusts the soldier issue rifle that's slung over his shoulder. Another thing that has his blood pressure rising. He gets that they're supposed to be incognito, but to force Lance to use something so old and inaccurate, and not to mention drab and not the least bit flashy! 

“First, he doesn't tell us why we need the supposed important info, then he makes me stay on standby! The absolute _nerve._ ” 

“We can hear everything you're saying,” Acxa says over the comm. Lance likes to think she sounds amused. 

“Quite clearly, in fact.” Lance shuts his mouth at Lotor’s admittedly posh voice, perfect accent. Which is getting on his nerves! 

He can't stop himself from adding, “From your comfy throne on the ship?” 

“Lance. . .” Ezor interrupts, warning in her tone. 

“Stay alert,” Lotor orders. “Enough chit-chat. The point of being in disguise is to be _unseen,_ which will not happen if you do not be quiet.” 

Gritting his teeth, Lance forces himself to not say that Lotor isn't _his_ superior. He really should be quiet, he knows this, but nerves come in the form of the unrelenting need to talk, to hear himself, know that everyone's okay in this moment. Stealth is not exactly his strong suit. 

Lance forces himself to cool down, deep breaths reminding him of the uncomfortable fabric that's draped over him. He's so used to tight suits and uniforms that the generic rebel clothes are hard to get used to, especially since they billow. Why would the rebels want their clothes to _billow?!_

He closes one eye and looks through the lense, scoping out the area once again. It appears that this ship is mostly manned by bots, all moving in a weird and in sync way, like puppets on a string. But, Lance rather have the bots, because then he knows that his bullets hit metal and wire, not muscle and bone. 

Acxa’s voice crackles over the silent comm. “Lance!” 

Frantically searching for any crisis, Lance makes the mistake of not looking behind him. He gasps when he feels the air at his back being disturbed, turning just in time to dodge the sword of a flesh and blood Galra. 

“Quiznak,” Lance grunts, reaching for his shield. Only, of course, he doesn't have it, because he's ‘not here as a Paladin.’ He might have mimed along with the prime accent with his hand if he wasn't dodging life threatening swipes. 

Lance almost calls out for help, but he stops himself, not going to give the other’s locations away. Beads of sweat line down his face, burning his eyes as they stick to his eyelashes like tears. Grunting at each dodge, Lance can feel his muscles burn, and his joints grind as he uses his rifle to block what he can't evade. 

_Anytime, now,_ Lance thinks, _someone can come help me any quiznaking time._

Cursing, he takes his chance at the first opening he gets and slides the Galra soldier's legs out from under him. He makes his getaway, only to feel a strong grip around his ankle. Out of habit, he flinches, losing his balance completely, falling against the metal floor. 

_Any! Time! Now!_

He can hear heavy breathing over the comm, or maybe it's his own. He can't be sure, as his head slams into the ground, sending a zing through his spine. Groaning, he flails and throws his unrestrained leg out, which nicks its target, if just barely.

The comm crackles. His head pounds. Lance truly hopes he isn't done for, because really? This is how he's going out? Pathetic.

Scrambling, Lance falls face first, the strong grip releasing him. Turning, Lance realizes he really is going to die. His vision clears.

What has to be Lotor stands over the body of the offending Galra. He swings his sword once again, and despite himself, he flinches. Purple blood flicks off the weapon, before Lotor sheaths it. He turns away without even acknowledging that he legit just saved Lance’s life. He follows suit, pretending his blood isn't rushing through his body in panic. 

Ezor drops down from a vent, falling and poised as soon as she hits the ground, ready to defend Lance’s honor. Surprise flashes on her features when she sees her Prince out and about. Acxa isn't far behind, sprinting and somehow still not out of breath. 

“What. . .” Ezor exclaims as Narti sidles up next to her. 

“Narti,” Lotor says, voice muffled by his helmet. “Take care of it.” 

Lotor leads Lance away, Ezor and Acxa filing behind like this is all routine. But they all seem to notice the underlying hum of anger surrounding Lotor. 

Lance is so screwed. And he can't even blame it on anyone but himself. 

☆☆☆

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully y'all enjoyed! Feel free to follow or talk to me @lo-tor on tumblr! 
> 
> I love all of you guys' comments, they warm my heart and make my writing feel worth while. Thank you ♡♡♡


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE, HAVE SOME SLOW BUILD LANCELOT WITH UST! 
> 
> Why do I always post a chapter during a busy week? Probably because I can look forward to a few comments. 
> 
> Thanks @miss-macabre-grey for beta'ing again! Much appreciated! She also has a sequel to her other Lancelot fic posted that y'all should check out! 
> 
> I really hope a certain reader from the first part catches up and reads this chapter because I believe they will enjoy it :3 unlikely, but all I can do is hope.

Pidge goes out of her way to include Shiro in everything. It's weird, since Hunk is pretty sure they all had an unspoken agreement that, after finding him half dead, to let the poor guy take steps on his own.

She wakes him up before breakfast, guiding him to the table even when he looks like he's about to drop. After breakfast, she takes him with her to begin tinkering with the Lions. She even spars with him.

Now, this wouldn't be too strange if not for the _totally strange alien who’s tried to kill us before,_ who’s now _staying_ with them. Come on, cut Hunk a little slack. 

But no. Nope. Let's leave big ole Hunk in the kitchen with the scary General. (Lance’s humor might be rubbing off on him.) 

Zethrid comes bustling into the kitchen, where Hunk is stress baking, trying to make the space equivalent of pound cake. 

“Food,” Zethrid grunts at him. 

“. . . Hah?” 

“Food!” That startles HunkHunk startles at the sudden yell, the sad excuse for a pound cake deflating. 

“Okay, okay,” Hunk stalls, shaking just a teeny bit. He puts together a meal of lightly flavored (watered down) space goo, adding a piece of pound jello that, after a spoon test, doesn't taste too bad. 

As soon as he puts it on the counter Zethrid snatches it up, basically shoving the entire thing down her throat. Hunk looks on in respectful horror.

Zethrid clears her throat when she's finished. Looking at Hunk directly, she settles her heavy hand on his shoulder. “Fantastic.” 

“What?”

“The food!” She exclaims. “Is the most glorious thing I've tasted in ages! You are a worthy ally.”

Hunk thinks this must be a glitch, a slip in time, and that when he wakes up, Zethrid will be her usual scary self. But as he steps into the kitchen the next day to clean the mess he left in the early hours by a sleepy mistake, the General is already there. Her sleeves are rolled up, ears in hair net. Without the huge things on top of her head, she looks more innocent, not the hulking Galran General that could squash even Hunk. 

“Ally!” She says. Gesturing to what she's rolling, she continues, “I got a head start.”

Not realizing it was supposed to be a contest, he replies, “That you did. What are you making?” 

“A dish from my home planet.” Her face softens, ears drew back. 

“So, it's Galran?”

Zethrid snorts, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s what I've said, from my homeland.” 

Hunk notices the sad uptick of her lips, forming a grimace. He half wants to comfort her, and half wants to run away; she's Galran, and despite all he's seen to the contrary, seeing any type of emotions besides bloodlust and anger is strange. The Blade of Marmora, while being awesome dudes, only show monotone stoicism. 

After a few seconds of debate, Hunk rolls out what he had started for today, working in silence beside Zethrid, who's put her dough in to set, going to a premixed batter. As she puts what she's working on in the oven, he sees that it's the pound cake he was attempting the day before. It cooks in what seems like minutes before Zethrid takes it out and slams it out of it’s mold none too delicately. Still intact, she cuts it and hands Hunk a steaming piece.   
“Wow!” Zethrid is proud at the delighted exclamation. 

The next day it's the same exact thing. And then the next. Hunk pounds out something sweet to bake away his worry for Lance, while spending his evenings working in advancements with Pidge. He finds himself looking forward to having someone to cook with, even a giant warrior alien. The anxiety from her presence slacks its grip from his shoulders.   
Within four days, he can almost breathe in relief, and begin to tentatively trust her. Momentarily. 

The fifth day he turns to her, batter coating his apron. “You know, you don't have to bake. Or cook. We could do something else.” 

And that's how he somehow volunteers himself to grueling and mind breaking spar sessions. 

He worries about Lance just a little bit less. 

☆☆☆

The grip on his bicep borders on snug, the force leading him to the ship. Once on deck, Lotor says, “Narti, did you manage?” 

She nods, stock still. Handing something to Lotor, she brings her hand to her chest in a show of respect. 

“Good. Let us leave.” He turns to Lance as the Generals go to their posts, the ship humming. “Now, you.” 

He says it like Lance is a misbehaved child that he has been forced to babysit; perhaps it's how he sees Lance, since this dude is probably thousands of years old. He still doesn't appreciate the ashamed feeling that crawls up the back of his throat. 

“You didn’t heed Acxa’s warning. Why?” 

Kneading his sore head, Lance sighs. “Sorry I'm not a mindreader. I thought she was the one in trouble.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Acxa fidgets. 

“It isn’t your fault, Acxa,” Lance says. “But you guys need to remember that I haven't been on this team for more than, like, a week. Cut me some slack here. And! And, we should totally have code names!” 

“Ooh,” Ezor awws, leaving her station behind. “I like this idea.” 

“Of course, I'll be Sharpshooter.” Lotor taps his   
fingers against his wrist guard condescendingly, but begrudgingly listens.

“Narti can be Cat Lady.” Ezor snorts. “Acxa is totally Space Mom.” This makes Ezor choke on a laugh, while Acxa looks on with a mild need to slaughter them both. 

Tapping his shoulder, Ezor asks, “What will I be, Sharpshooter?” 

Lance hums, leg jiggling with thoughts. “Hmm, that's a tough one. Chameleon?” 

“Too obvious.”

“So is Narti’s!” 

“Still. Give me a good one.” 

“Smooth Criminal?” 

Ezor pauses, thinking it over. From the subtle gleam in her eyes, Lance isn't surprised when she grins and says, “Perfect. Now for Prince Lotor.” 

Stifling a smile, Lance mourns the jokes he could have made with Team Voltron. Well, the ones from Earth. This group won't understand any Michael Jackson references, nor the Space Mom one. A bout of homesickness of the space variety threatens to nip at his heels. 

Instead, he smirks and examines Lotor. “What do you have in mind, Ezor?” 

She looks gleeful and happy to oblige with a ridiculous name, but as soon as she glances over to Lotor behind Lance, she must see something that changes her mind. Her smile slackens, but not with fear nor anger, just bashful resignation. “Let's just go with Boss.” 

Lance, for once, knows when to not push, and nods.   
“Now that we have that important matter dealt with,” Lotor says sarcastically, “I still need to address what happened today.”

“And what is that, Boss?” Lance asks. 

“You’re weak when it comes to hand-to-hand to combat. It’s surprising that your team would neglect to teach you proper form when you cannot be behind a scope.” 

He clenches his fist, gnashing his teeth to keep quiet. He knows this is true, that he would have died if not for Lotor, but the thought of being continually humiliated by being taught an essential skill causes angry tears to line his eyelids. Rapidly blinking them away, Lance pushes his anger away from Lotor, who is correct, and turns it inside out, directing it inward. 

“Well,” Lance draws, “I pity the gal that's gonna be forced to teach me. Team Voltron didn't ‘neglect’ it, I'm just that horrible at it.”

Lotor grins righteously, both totally hot and infuriating, and says, “Oh. The Generals will not be the ones teaching you. I will.” 

Queue the laughing track, which totally summarizes Lance’s life. 

☆☆☆

“Quit laughing! I'm completely serious! He's out to get me!” 

Hunk, the traitor, laughs once again, his attempts to stifle it coming through the comms as well. He doesn't succeed. If anything, it only makes this whole situation worse, because Hunk’s laughing so hard that he can't stop. Wow. 

Lance lays sprawled across his bed, slightly bigger than the one given to him in his kidnapped days. The counters are marginally larger as well, big enough to tell Lance he's moved up, but small enough to warn him not to mess this up because he's too close to the bottom. 

_“Maybe you should cut him some slack, because he seems like he's actually trying to, like, make sure you don't die.”_

Lance wants to show Hunk all the bruises he has from falling, tripping over his own feet, not to mention where the blunt sparring sword had hit him to signify his metaphoric deaths. It may be some weird alien wood, but it still _hurt._

“I'm disowning you as my best friend. Keith is now my bro from another world.” 

_“I'm sure Keith would be happy to hear that, or maybe not.”_ Hunk snorts, breath causing a ripple effect of static. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” He sits up, managing not to wince aloud. 

_“Well, he has a crush on you, doesn't he?”_

“What?! No! We had a rivalry, and now a tentative friendship. I mean, maybe he's hot, even for having a mullet, but we're just friends. Besides, I don't think I'm the one he _likes likes.”_

Hunk is quiet for a few beats. _“So he likes Shiro? Pidge?”_

Lance groans, feeling his best friends confusion through the comm. Really, for someone so insightful, he can sometimes be pretty daft. 

“No, you dummy, he likes _you.”_

_“Oh.”_ Hunk exclaims. Hope tinges his tone, but so does confusion. _“I. I don't think that could be true. I'm squishy and susceptible to random bouts of puking. No one would want to kiss that. I wouldn't want to kiss that.”_

“Hunk, my main man. You're a catch, squishiness and all. If I didn't have completely platonic feelings for you, I'd totally steal you.” 

_“What if he just has_ completely platonic feelings _for me?”_

Lance doesn't know how to respond, because, really, he can't know for sure whether Keith's feelings are romantic or platonic. Heck, Keith probably doesn't know, as emotionally starved as he is. But there's definitely something there, whether it be potential for a life altering friendship, or a heart rending romance. 

“He definitely has some type of feelings for you. Don't deny it.”

There's a brief silence, heavy with contemplation and realization. But, instead of elaborating, Hunk says, _“So, what about you and Lotor?”_

Totally diverting the entire conversation, but since Lance is a great guy, he lets Hunk be. “What do you mean, me and Lotor?” 

_“Sexual tension,”_ Hunk sings. 

“What?!” He squawks. Is he that obvious, even over the comm?

_“You and Lotor seem to have, what is it called? Chemistry.”_ Hunk isn't allowed to be this sassy, not thousand of miles away somewhere in space! _“You're getting. . .ya know. Lancey about him.”_

“‘Lancey’? What's that supposed to mean?” He huffs defensively. 

Hunk hums, and begins to count down. _“You react differently when you're attracted to a guy. One: you usually make comments about their hair. Two: you either flirt or make yourself acquainted with them or their friends/teammates. And finally: the rivalry and/or bickering with said person. So, Keith, now Lotor.”_

“Okay, but I totally had a crush on you and I was never like that! So your analysis is totally wrong, like, Pidge liking English wrong!” 

Hunk’s sigh ripples through the comm, and Lance can just picture him facepalming. He probably is. 

_“Lance, in the fourth grade you made a big deal about learning to cook. And considered me your culinary rival.”_

Lance squints, wincing as he recalls the embarrassing little tidbit from his past. He was a jerk then, he knows, but that was the year he had the realization he wasn't straight before he suppressed that information until high school! 

“Well, whatever,” Lance drawls. 

_“You almost burnt down your house, buddy.”_

“I totally would've won the baking contest if I hadn't!” 

_“Sure, Lance.”_

Lance feels more than hears Hunk’s breath, the small device similar to human ones, vibrating and hissing once someone’s breathes too close. The silence is companionable, the quiet only a few true friends experience together. Hunk has to know Lance is gearing up to say something important, pausing the conversation when Lance does. 

“I miss you, buddy,” he says. 

Hunk answers with an immediate, _“Me too.”_

“Sorry if I'm pressuring you about Keith. It's completely up to you.” Sometimes he just takes things too far, too soon. It's part of his sparkly personality. 

“You know me, you kinda have too. Just like you need to be reminded that you're _totally hot for Lotor.”_

Lance groans the entire time as he turns over, attempting to find a different angle to lay that doesn't disrupt any new bruises. “Fine, I admit it. Now, shut your quiznak.”

_“Oh, I'm so scared.”_

“Just go to sleep, Hunk-a-Love.” 

_“Fine. Good night.”_

“Night.” 

Lance cuts the connection and sighs. He's in deeper than he thought. Not only is he pretty comfortable here, he's beginning to feel like maybe he can belong. He needs to remember that this is temporary, that Lotor can't be trusted completely. He can allow himself to feel comfortable with the Generals, but Lotor? No. His agenda and loyalties are too prone to sway, right? 

Lance is confused, so he just quits thinking about it. As his mind shuts down, Lance remembers that he totally forgot to ask about Zethrid. 

Great. Now he can add being a bad friend to the list.

☆☆☆

Lance wakes up and immediately regrets it. Soreness ripples down his body, a chain effect of aggravated muscles and nerves. Groaning, he stands slowly, cracking a few joints on the way up. 

Dressing quickly, he hurries to the training deck. If he's late, Lotor is the kind of mentor to make him run laps or some other laborious punishment. He can’t be worse than Allura though, which is strangely reassuring. 

He makes it by the skin of his teeth. All around the deck the Generals are in the process of stretching, Ezor showing off her flexibility by contorting her body in half while she balances atop Acxa’s shoulders. Narti’s nowhere to be seen, which is normal. Rolling his eyes, Lance jogs over to Lotor, dreading every stride closer. 

“Ah, you finally made it,” Lotor says, smirking. Lance glowers at him. Lotor, the jerk, smirks even more. 

“It would be pretty cool if someone could wake me up. Or, I dunno, give me an alarm clock. Wait, do aliens have alarm clocks?” 

“We're more technologically advanced than most any species, including yours,” Acxa says curtly. 

Lance begins his stretching routine, dreading the shaky feeling that will follow. He'll be done with today before it even starts. “Why no alarm clocks then?”

“Well, most of us can wake up without one,” Lotor says, fingers grazing a rack that holds many gleaming swords. He stops at the wooden one, placing two finger tips over the hilt, before they walk off and land on another. A real, metal sword. One that looks like it can cut through Lance like he's paper.

Swallowing, Lance says, “Well, not all of us were raised military, or whatever. Lancey loves to sleep.” 

“Lancey? That's a new one,” Ezor says.

“Lancey,” Lotor hums. Lance pretends it doesn't give him some pretty strange reactions. “We will. . .be putting a bit more at stake today. Are you ready?” 

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, snickering at his generic response. Nervous sweat collects at the middle of his back, and he prays to whatever space deity out there that he doesn't smell. Well, yet. Since he'll be a puddle once this is over, for sure.

Taking the real sword, Lotor grins as he brings his finger to the edge, his skin seconds from being broken. He draws back, the weapon about as long as his forearm, getting into a fighting stance. Lance is still unarmed. 

“Heads up,” Ezor calls. 

Lotor caresses the side of the blade, holding the sharp edges in his palms. Lance is starting to get a bit queasy. Lotor eyes Lance, tossing the weapon hilt first towards him. 

Out of reflex, Lance reaches for it, fingers barely grazing the hilt. It clatters to the floor, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent room. 

Shock officially worn off, he yells, “Give a guy a warning first, holy crowing quiznak!” 

Lotor nods, a little respect blotting out the casual boredom that seems to permanently reside there. “Again.” 

And he does it, again and again, until he catches it five times consecutively. Nicks and cuts marr his poor fingers, but despite the stinging, he feels a little proud. 

Proud or not though, he asks, “Why they heck did you do that for?!” 

Lotor paces back and forth, contemplative. “You never know when you’re going to be out of a weapon, and you need to be able to be given one quickly. I already assume you know how to do that with a gun?” He takes Lance’s silence as a yes. “Especially when you have to leave your precious bayard behind, you cannot rely on always having what you need.”

“Can you quit being so logical? You're making too much sense. I was expecting a villain-turned-ally speech about worthiness.”

Lotor gazes at him. Lance grows fidgety, cursing the tightness of his uniform. “No one needs to be worthy of defending themselves. It’s a given, a birthright. Some are just not given the opportunity to develop it.” 

“That's very smart. Though, I have a feeling it isn't a popular concept with the Galra,” Lance says.

“Perhaps not.” Lotor strides over, sheathing the sword and placing it back in its home. Grabbing for the wooden one, he replies, “And I’d hope so, since I’ve been around much longer than those around me.” He throws the wooden sword at Lance much the same way as before. He catches it with ease.

“Wait. We could've just practiced the catching with the wooden one! Now my hands are gonna be sore.”

“Narti will take care of them. You needed to have a sense of danger to take it seriously. Now, give me your best fighting stance.” 

Lance mimics what Keith and Shiro have tried time and time again to teach him (okay, _Shiro_ tried more than once.) He widens his legs, feet aligned with his hips, and immediately corrects his pigeon toes. His forearms come up to protect his face, hands clenched into fists, thumbs on the outside. Shiro had told him multiple times, warning of bad things to come if he continued to tuck his thumbs into his fists, but it was more comfortable that way. Two broken thumbs later, Lance had a sudden change of heart. 

Lotor circles him, stride one of a predator. He stops at Lance’s back, leaning in. A hand is splayed on his waist, directing his hips, squaring them. It ghosts against his back as it lands on his right shoulder, his other hand coming up to rest between his shoulder blades. They pull at the same time, straightening his back.

When he must be certain Lance will stay in this position, Lotor says, “Your posture is atrocious.” 

“Tell me something I don't know.” 

Lotor places the wooden sword in Lance's hands. “Stand how you usually would.”

Complying, Lance’s minimal training kicks in. He grips the hilt exactly like Shiro had patiently showed him. His skin prickles, telling him he's being closely studied. Usually this makes him preen, happy at the attention, but the eyes on him makes him feel like he's slowly being dissected, all of his faults laid out simple and plain for all to see. 

Lance is really grateful that Lotor isn't on the opposing side any longer. 

Lotor breaks the silence. “Not completely hopeless.”

“I told you that they taught me, I'm just useless with it,” he says. Which, true, but it didn't help that everyone who attempted to teach him have been too hot. Lotor included, because _holy crow._

Some time during Lance’s montage, Lotor put his hair up, white strands pulled into a low ponytail. The hair looks thick enough to be able to choke him with, and Lance shouldn't be excited about that. But, _his hair._ Best in the universe, right next to Lance’s. 

His face now looks sharper, more severe without the strands there to soften the rough edges, but it only makes the Prince look more attractive. More free.

Lance can already hear Hunk’s laugh when he tells him all of this. The only consolation is that at least Lotor doesn't have a mullet. The thought alone could give Lance nightmares. 

Lotor corrects his hold minutely, where Lance isn't even sure what difference it made. Their fingers brushed, and Lance spies some handy claws, pun intended. With his larger hands, Lotor adjusts his grip and fixes his stance accordingly, all while smelling like top brand hair conditioner and something warm and otherworldly. Lance is sweating.

“Swing.” Lance swings. 

“Hold.” Lance holds. 

“Relax.” He does that too. 

His brain finally commits to this endeavor, a trance like focus closing in around anything else. It feels a bit like falling in love, the single-mindedness of the impossible task in front of him, something he wants to conquer and be conquered. In this stage, Lotor could tell Lance to cut off his own fingers, and he might actually have to think about it. 

Lotor instructs him to put as much force into a swing, the Prince going around him to stand in front of Lance. In any other situation, Lance would worry about hurting him, but the determination takes over and he does just that. 

Lotor blocks it with just his uniform cuff. “I thought so. Before we continue, we need to strengthen your limbs. Otherwise, anything I teach you will be for naught. Now, usually that’s Zethrid’s expertise, but I guess you'll have to settle for me.” His small smile doesn't give Lance much confidence.

Ezor giggles from the sidelines, almost entirely blended into the metal background. Lance flips her off, despite her complete lack of knowledge of what that means. It makes him feel better. 

The next few hours of Lance’s life is torture. He thought the Garrison’s mandatory gym class was humiliating and death inducing, but looking back as does his hundredth _something,_ it was a walk in the park. 

Lance takes back everything he thought about Lotor’s hair. He hopes that in some freak accident, his stupid ponytail will get stuck wrapped around his neck, effectively killing him instantly. Or perhaps slowly, he amends, because he has to pay for this kind of cruelty. 

“That should be all for today.” At the voice, Lance goes limp, laying starfish across the cold floor. He's panting, wishing for immediate death. 

“You mean I have to do _more?!”_

Lotor, the worst person in every possible universe, just gives a chuckle. (Who _actually_ chuckles?) “That's the idea. You did good, better than I expected.” 

At the praise, Lance smiles just a little, sort of proud for holding out and surviving. He takes Lotor’s outstretched hand and doesn't feel the impulse to kill the guy.

It's progress.

☆☆☆

Once Lance leaves, presumably to take a shower, Ezor pounces. Lotor isn't sure what else he expected. 

“Prince!” She says, pointing and cackling. “Prince, I can't believe you actually taught him!” 

Acxa walks alongside Ezor’s excited struts. “I can't believe it either, sir. It is unlike you.”

“Whatever do you mean?” 

Of course, Lotor knows exactly what they are speaking of. While it is fun to egg Ezor on, Lotor is confused, an emotion he loathes. 

The entire training bit was supposed to discourage Lance. Lotor is not cruel, but he can be strategically mean with little effort. He gets no enjoyment out of it unless the person deserves it -- which, Lance doesn't, admittingly -- but he can't have the Paladin get too close. 

Lance reminds him of a person standing just too close to a fire, near enough to feel the heat and suffer none of the nasty side effects. But, with each day, he takes a step closer. Soon he'll be able to stretch a hand out and get burned, skin boiling. 

That is what happens whenever someone gets too close. 

But, surprisingly, Lance rose to the challenge head on. Lotor had seen no true hesitation, all eager eyes and tanned skin, glistening with sweat. He did not like the way his own gaze lingered upon Lance’s heaving chest, nor his flexible limbs as they scramble with little grace. 

Mood souring, Lotor stays silent. Ezor notices and doesn't care. “You know exactly what I mean. You were practically giving him a warm welcome, Mister Cold-Blooded Softie.”

His claws ache, begging to reach the surface and see the light. Lotor grits his teeth. “I didn't want him to slow us down. We need him to be versatile in all things, not just his environment.”

“That's practically an endorsement, if you'll excuse me for saying so,” Acxa replies, looking sheepish at Ezor’s suggestive glance. She rarely speaks when not spoken to. She has little need for useless words.   
Inwardly sighing, he says, “You are excused. Just don't make a habit of feeding Ezor’s fantasies.” 

Ezor playfully glares, shoulder to shoulder with Narti. Suddenly, Lotor feels the urge to stand, to be eye to eye with his Generals. Being looked down upon is enough to make his skin crawl. 

Despite what an outward glance would see, Lotor understands his Generals. He knows all their pasts, their wants, their needs. Their hopes for the future. They're all there within his palm, waiting to be nurtured or to be crushed, depending on his will. It's enough power to make even the most humble of men heady with it. He clenches a fist, nails threatening to break flesh. 

He will never be his father. 

“Do tell what's so interesting about our interactions.” 

Ezor pretends to think, words fighting to jump off the tip of her tongue. “Well, for one, you went easy on him. He didn't even throw up once. And you got your weird single-minded focus thing. Which is super serious.” She tilts her head, grin savage. “You like him.” 

Lotor wishes, at this moment, that he hadn't taken pity on this specific General. When he found her, she'd been thin, deathly so, covered in blood. Her eyes had been wild, angry things, her horrible experiences reflected within them, acting as mirrors to those who understood her pain. And Lotor had. Which is why he'd given her a jacket and offered her a trial place within his ranks. 

His ship hadn't always ran with the efficiency it does now. There had been infighting, betrayal, hurt until he found the right ones. He'd seen the promise once Ezor latched onto Narti, acting as her voice and guide when Kova hadn't acted as her eyes. 

Well, he supposes he doesn't regret it. Even if she's an irritation, and completely delusional. 

“I don't like anyone,” he replies, posture open.

Ezor isn't convinced. “You totally like him. He's within the ranks of your frozen little heart. You like him,” she sings. 

“I suppose he isn't much of a bother,” Acxa says, always faithful, even to a fault. 

Lotor glares at Ezor, who just winks. It's unusual to see Ezor so taken with someone so quickly, especially a virtual outsider. Perhaps she sees a wayward soul within Lance, or maybe she just finds him attractive; it's hard to know when it comes to Ezor. 

“Perhaps you're the one who likes him,” he finally says. 

Chortling, Ezor replies, “Me in what universe?” She strokes Narti’s arm as if to make a point. 

“You're deflecting, sir,” Acxa says. 

Lotor thinks, imagining what can possibly make Ezor so convinced of his so-called feelings for the Paladin. All he can discern is that he treats him fairly, and it stings a bit for Ezor to think it odd. 

“Our lovely Ezor is reading into it too much. She thinks she can be a sort of matchmaker, I presume. We don't have time for frivolous things like that.” 

“Lance isn't frivolous.”

He can't keep the sigh from escaping. “I didn't say that. We have too much to focus on to think about our feelings and other useless things.” 

“What's our objective?” Acxa asks, taking pity on Lotor, or perhaps Ezor. 

Muscles unlock that he hadn't noticed tensing, skin settled now that they've settled on a subject that he knows everything about. “Well, for one, due to our Lance’s little mishap, we didn't get the information we needed. We will look to suspicious if a group of three to four rebels attack stations that hold the same information, especially with Haggar the witch breathing down our backs, so I suggest you all to be extremely careful.” 

“Will you ever tell us what we're risking our lives for?”

“When the time is right.” 

He certainly hears something like “that'll be never” muttered under Ezor’s breath. He ignores it, despite the wedge the words create between his skin and bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully y'all enjoyed! Would love to hear from you guys down in the comments! Love you guys.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! Sorry for the wait, but I've had a bit of a writing slump. The further I get into this series the harder it is to write; I think it's because I'm getting into major plot points and I'm nervous. I've never written a plot-plot. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta miss-macabre-grey! She makes me unnecessarily nervous about her editing only to leave helpful comments, the noob.

Lance wakes up disoriented.

He has strong, vivid dreams. He dreams of terrible things, sees his friends become killers and soldiers, but he can never reach them, can never stop them. He remembers how his sobs shook his chest, real and imagined all the same. He's never cried so hard in his life as he did in the dreams, and he doesn't like the phantom itchiness in his chest that's still present when he wakes up. 

Staring at the ceiling, Lance contemplates not getting up at all. He can tell he's going to have one of those days, one where he feels irritable towards everything, and everyone stares when he over compensates his mood with his humor. He aches with the need to be around others, but as soon as he's surrounded he wants to curl up and sleep. 

But, knowing he's already walking a thin line here, he forces himself to get up. Putting on the General’s uniform is second nature by now, sans the horrid boots, and he jolts when he realizes he's just been standing there fully dressed for an indecipherable amount of time. 

He jogs all the way to the training room to make up for the lost time. His vision swims by the time he gets there, sweat coating his brow. Lance lectures himself before he comes into contact, forcing a smile on his face. 

_Don't embarrass yourself, idiot._

“Hey, y'all.” 

They all just blink at him -- excluding Narti of course. Lance wishes for a swift and immediate death.

“Hello,” Acxa says, putting him out of his misery. 

“What are we going to be doing today?”

Lotor assesses Lance, eyes slightly suspicious. He has to press his lips together to keep from blurting out “No, I'm not betraying or spying on you, I just probably have a brain problem at this point.” Would they understand if he did? Did the Galrans even have a word for mental illness, since they most likely consider it a weakness? 

“We'll be working on form,” Lotor finally says. Acxa shoots Lotor a strange look, and Ezor is busy smirking, the expression upside-down as she hangs on her knees. 

“Alrighty then, let's get to it. We're using fake swords, though, right? Because I'm still a weak noodle, and you could kill me by snapping your fingers, probably.” 

Lotor’s stance slackens. “Yes, the swords will be dull or wooden.” He smirks, eyes challenging. “They'll still hurt, so do try to actually dodge them this time.”

His blood quickens at the challenge, and he gets into his fighting stance. He knows Lotor can probably pick his form apart with a single glance, but Lotor starts out slow anyway, giving Lance some time to feel more confident before quickening his swipes. 

It isn't until Lotor swings and Lance has to switch his weight on his feet that he falls. He trips, too used to avoiding putting any weight on his ankle, landing on his butt. 

“Again.” Lotor pauses. “You're doing better. Evading is what we will base your technique on.” 

_Evading is what I'm good at,_ Lance wants to say. He keeps his mouth shut despite it being on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't want to ruin the adrenaline rush, nor the warmth he feels. 

Lotor reaches a hand and Lance takes it. Before he can let go, a sword is speeding towards his side. Caught off guard, he barely gets out of the way in time.

“What the heck?! That was totally dirty!” 

Lotor grins, humor coloring his eyes. “You managed to dodge it, no? No harm done.”

“You're horrible and I hate you,” Lance says. Lotor doesn't seem to believe him, taking no offense. He blinks, taken aback from Lotor’s easy demeanor. 

It's after, when he's showering off stale sweat that he realizes he barely noticed the Generals today. 

☆☆☆

Things get hectic in the Castleship. 

They get a distress call while they're sleeping. Allura alerts the them all just as Hunk is fully dreaming, REM sleep finding him at last. It becomes such a regular thing that he doesn't even complain to himself, just gets dressed and runs down the hall in a rush. 

Pidge is already there, as is Shiro, and Hunk can safely assume that they never went to sleep in the first place. Pidge has made it her mission to “bond” with him, saying that someone should keep an eye on him. 

“I'm tired and I hate this,” Hunk deadpans, rubbing at his eyes. “I swear, if it's that same planet calling us _again,_ I'm going to be a mad Hunk. The last time they sent a distress call, it was because their weird alien plumbing was clogged and flooded the village.”

Keith nods in agreement. “It was so gross.” 

As soon as Hunk sees the look on Allura’s face, he knows it's not another maintenance call. It's serious.

“We got a distress beacon from the planet of Ulisa. They are currently being suppressed heavily after a failed rebellion. Men and women that are able bodied are being systematically eliminated, while children are starved. We need to destroy the Galra base, and liberate the prisoners. We should be able to free these poor people soon thereafter.” 

“That all sounds familiar,” Pidge says, looking a little sick. Hunk shares her sediment, dreading every light year closer they get. He's being selfish, but he's not sure he can stomach what he's about to see; Lance would tease him again if he were here, like when Hunk puked during a documentary in history class that barely even touched the general horribleness of the second World War. 

When they all see the devastation from afar, they know.

“We need Voltron,” Hunk says. Allura nervously fidgets, which is scary, because Allura never fidgets. Coran looks similarly horrified. 

“But Lance is gone and Keith hasn't bonded with Red yet, let alone Black accepting Shiro. What can we do?” Pidge asks, pacing. 

Keith looks away, face closing off, guilt settling in the empty spaces. Hunk knows that no amount of talking can convince Keith that none of this is his fault, so Hunk settles with placing a comforting hand in his shoulders. He doesn't respond, but the muscles under Hunk’s palm slacken. 

“What're we gonna do about Zethrid?” Pidge asks.

“We can't very well leave her alone in the castle!” Coran says. 

“Coran is right,” Allura says. “Hunk, she seems most fond of you. I much as this discomforts me, you'll have to fly with her in the Yellow Lion.”

“Understood.” 

Keith bristles at Hunk’s compliant attitude. “Woah, woah. That's way too dangerous. She could easily jeopardize the mission, and most importantly, hurt Hunk.”

Hunk sighs softly. “Buddy. . .” 

“I want to crush them just as much as everyone else,” comes a voice from the doorway. Hunk didn't notice it's zip-lock bag type noise. 

Zethrid stands tall, arms relaxed at her sides. She wears an apron that has white dustings from whatever project she had to leave behind. She looks relaxed but poised to pounce, nostrils flared and nose twitching like she can already smell a fight. 

“I am a halfling, remember? The Galra are not kind to those who are weak, nor those who's blood is diluted.”

“That sucks,” Hunk says sincerely. The past week or two, he and Zethrid had gotten closer. They weren't exactly best friends, but Hunk enjoyed the pleasant boisterous atmosphere she brings to the kitchen, and how Hunk can actually spar with someone with the same type of strength he has. Not everyone has the lean brute of Keith and Shiro. 

Zethrid looks straight into Keith's eyes. Keith stiffens next to Hunk, waiting for a duel or something probably. The poor guy always expects the worst. 

“You are a halfling as well. I do not think you had an easy life on your home planet, but you also never dealt with the Galra. Not like I have. They deserve to be crushed.” 

“Will Lotor be okay with this?” Pidge retorts, hips cocked and sass fully loaded. Stress lines her forehead, her eyes frayed and angry. 

Zethrid smiles, all fangs. “My Prince wants the same thing.” 

☆☆☆

“I'm bored,” Lance gripes. He lies on his back across the cold floor, sweat causing his skin to shine in the humming military issue lights. Lotor has tried time and time again to avert his gaze, but his eyes appear to be drawn to the patch of skin that is shown, Lance’s uniform haphazardly bunched below his shoulders. The idiot forgot had to take it off, and had given up not even halfway. 

Ezor collapses down next to Lance. “Welcome to my world, Lancey.” 

“What do you guys _do_ fun?!”

“Well, look around at your surroundings. Does this look like a nursery to you?” Lotor asks, grinning at Lance’s dramatic groan. 

“Okay, I think I can speak from experience that games are great. The team bonds and stress is lowered and stuff.”

“And stuff. Your argument is compelling.” 

Lance sits up suddenly. The uniform clinging desperately to his skin sags minutely. Enough that Lotor notices.

Lance raises his arm out at points an accusing finger at him. “Okay, Prince Grumpy-Pants, we all know you wouldn't know what fun was if it ran you over. But, as a Paladin of Voltron and your _Ambassador,_ I demand that we do _something._ Maybe hide and seek! It's a good exercise in, er, tracking.” 

His stellar pitch is sort of undermined by his wiggle-walk-sway method of pulling his suit back up. Lotor almost misses the now clad skin. 

Ezor hums in interest. Acxa looks vaguely pained. And Narti has an air of interest surrounding her.

“What does this game _Hide and Seek,_ entail?” Acxa asks.

Lance’s eyes dart between all of them, perhaps gauging the room. He nods at himself and says, “I would say it's pretty self explanatory. Everyone hides but one person, who tries to find everyone.” 

Acxa’s eyes brighten, her old inquisitive nature shining through. “Is this a common training regimen in your civilization?” 

Lance’s face pauses in an expression of surprise, before he nods excessively. “Sort of! Every kid has done it at least once in their lifetime. It's. . . a right of passage?” He winces as soon as the sentence leaves his mouth.

Lotor’s eyes widen when Ezor throws her head back and laughs a deep bellied laugh, the sort that makes her seem as though she's vibrating in a frenzy. She almost loses her balance in the moment, steadied by Narti’s quick tail. 

“The look on your face,” she chortles. 

He clasps his hands in front of him, eyes narrowing once again. “Go on, play. But expect to make up for lost time tomorrow.”

“Spoiler: we won't. He just doesn't wanna look soft,” Ezor mock whispers, glancing towards her Prince in delight. 

A ripple of relief unlocks Lotor’s clenched jaw. Ezor is acting like herself once again. No murmured doubts, nor questioning side glances. He can relax, he can rest knowing she is still present. Still part of his team. 

He supposed he might have to thank Lance for that. On his deathbed, perhaps.

“So,” Lance drawls, “You guys hide, and I, the sharpshooter with the eyes of a hawk, will find you all in a matter of minutes.” 

“You sound sure of yourself,” Acxa replies, her smile small but present. Not one to call attention to itself. Lance zeros in despite her efforts. 

“Of course I am! I am the _master_ of hide and seek. The _champion._ Completely undefeated.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Ezor sing-songs, blending into the background completely. If she wasn't bouncing with excitement, she'd be completely invisible. 

Lance squawks, “No, no, no. No way! Off limits! Let us peasants have a chance.”

“But I thought you were the _champion,”_ Lotor chimes in, taunting the Paladin. Lance looks him in the eyes, and with lips sealed tight, screams with frustration. It's muffled, and completely for comedic purposes, for Acxa relaxes and Ezor snuggles up to Narti with ease splayed across her long features. 

This particular Paladin is more clever than he lets on, Lotor decides. Lulling the opponent into a false sense of security. Too bad this is only child's play. 

“Narti can’t believe you called His Majesty a peasant. How lowly.” Ezor is preening at the chance to tease, clawed fingers tapping against Narti’s shoulders. She leans into the vicinity of Narti’s mouth, nodding and humming and giggling. 

From the look on her face, she is telling the poor Paladin that two can play this game of teasing competitors.

Lance explains the rules further, even with the stupidly simple instructions. Acxa is poised, knees bend and ready to dart away. Lotor thinks she might be taking this too seriously, but that is the gift she has; everything she does matters to her, whether it is being on the wrong side of the war, or a game that is directed towards children. 

Lance stands in the middle of the room, an elbow carelessly thrown over his eyes as he begins to count in an increasingly loud tone. When he gets to a certain number, he stops and drops his arm, eyes darting over to Lotor.

“Are you sure you don't want to play?” Lance asks, sincere. It makes his hair stand on end. 

“Oh, look, you found me. Game over. Run along now.” Lance rolls his eyes, disappointment evident in his stance. Before he can exit, Lotor adds, “And do try to find Ezor first. She plays dirty.”

Lance grins, jogging off. Lotor finds himself alone for the first time in doboshes. 

He settles, mask crumbling around the edges. Finally alone, he can just exist. 

Lotor, despite most opinions, enjoys the company of his Generals, and, begrudgingly, that of the Red Paladin. But, with that in mind, being with them means he has to be what they expect him to be. A leader, one whose heart and intent is a little less cold and twisted. He might have saved all of his Generals, and Lance, but he's not naive enough to believe this means they will always stay at his stead. 

He's weary. 

His ears ring. 

_Remember,_ that voice says, ragged from disuse and displeasure, _you are alive by the grace of His Majesty. One more false move, and nothing can come between you and dishonorable death._

Nothing is permanent. Victory is never guaranteed. 

Letting his mind drift, he allows flashes of what was. Color. Livery. Solace. He allows himself this comfort for a few moments, allows himself to be reminded of all those lost. 

Lotor is tired. He isn't the picture of moral high ground, but he's so _tired._ He could easily let himself be held under his father’s -- no, the witch’s -- thumb, breathe in the toxic waters and go under. But, he doesn't want to live in constant anger, all seeing eyes burning his skin, examining his insides. Anger alludes to loss of control, and if there's one thing he hates more than the witch, it's that. 

His hatred should not be underestimated, but that's exactly what he's been working towards. Better for his father to see him as an unruly and rebellious child than someone capable of betrayal and sabotage. 

But his father wouldn't be surprised. That wouldn't do.

His thoughts are interrupted by stomps rivaling that of Zethrid’s. Ezor enters, walking with arms crossed. She reminds Lotor more of a petulant child than a deadly warrior. It suits her.

“Was our masterful Ezor found already?” 

Ezor glares, lips jutted out in protest. “He found me. He found me even when I used my cloaking abilities. The little brat.” 

“I assume that it's only fair. You _did_ cheat.” 

“That's besides the point,” she protests. “He's not supposed to be so good. Nobody can find me when I'm invisible besides Narti!” 

He ignores her childish ramblings. “Shouldn't you be looking for the others alongside Lance?” 

Her pout softens, eyes wide and shiny. Her smile is slow, quietly engulfing her face where grins usually tear. “So you were listening to the rules! You really are soft on him, aren't you?” 

Lotor doesn't deign to answer. This only makes her smile wider. 

“What are you so happy about, Ezor?” Acxa asks, hustling her way across the room to where Lotor is seated. She doesn't seem too hurt by her failure to be the last standing, features set in a sort of conservative contentment. A curiosity sated. 

“Nothing.” Her grin tells another story. She will be waiting to tell Acxa all the details once they are free of his presence. He grits his teeth in brief exasperation. It is somewhat fond. 

Acxa remains silent. Good choice.

They know when to leave him alone, so they whisper amongst themselves, waiting for Lance to find Narti, which is slim.

An entire dobosh later, Lance comes back in with huff, a smug Narti following. 

“I gave up! She's impossible to find! How? How can I not find her when I found freakin’ Ezor, who can poof invisible, but not our resident Cat Lady?! This is an outrage!” 

The Generals seems amused by his outburst, faces soft and malleable. Open. 

Lotor fears he looks the same way. 

☆☆☆

That night (well, his night) he talks to Pidge through the comm. He had a distinct feeling during dinner that someone was wrong, off. Hunk doesn't answer, which isn't that unusual -- he sometimes forgets it when he takes it off to focus on baking. And when Pidge answers the first alert instead of leaving it to the last ring just about confirms this. 

“Pidge?” He asks with concern. Usually he can never get Pidge to shut up. He could always hear her deep breath as soon as she picked up, before the subsequent rambling she unleashed. 

_“Lance.”_

The tone sends a jolt through his body, as if electrocuted. It sounds too hollow, too brittle and shaken. Like Pidge could crumble at any given time.  
“What happened?” All he can think is Kuro betraying them all, or _Keith, Hunk, Allura, Coran dead._ Even less attached, absently, _Matt._

She sighs, loud enough for a crinkle to ripple between them, distorted by the ringing in his ears. 

_“We couldn't save them. . .they're gone. All of them. We failed, Lance, we_ failed.”

His blood roars, limps detached and floating. “Who Pidge? Who couldn't you save?!” 

_“I wish you were here,”_ she whispers instead. His heart stops at the tone, at the absolute horror she had to gone through to admit something like that. 

“I miss you too. I miss everyone.” Something he would never usually admit. “If you don't want to talk about it, can you please let me know if anyone is hurt?” 

_“Hunk got injured, but he’s fine now.”_ She sniffles. _“Zethrid got him out of the Yellow Lion in time.”_

Lance sags with relief, but it's short lived. 

His team, his _family,_ is still going out there and putting themselves in danger on the daily. They still get distress calls, they still have alliances to build and missions to complete. Lance has forgotten all of that. His time with Lotor’s team has been like a pleasant dream, a cloud of avoidance. 

Just because Lance isn't there, doesn't mean life won't go on for Team Voltron. He's been so self centered. 

“You can tell me what happened, but I'm not gonna make you. Just tell me what to do,” He says, a little desperate. 

_“Just. . .do your usual annoying rambling, please.”_

Lance makes a show of huffing, puffing out his chest even if Pidge isn't there to see his display of insult. “How _dare._ You're lucky that I have so many stories or Pidgetto would be getting none, and I mean _zilch,_ Lancey love. Be grateful.” 

Pidge hiccups, a laugh marching after it. _“I'm so honored.”_

“So, I might be skinned for this, but apparently Lotor has, like, this whole room full of hair care products, and I've been thinking of raiding it. . .” 

Lance talks and talks, over exaggerating many of them, like his hard fought defeat in hide and seek, and how he managed to dodge death delivered by the Prince himself. 

By the time his mouth is dry and his eyes droopy, Pidge sounds more like herself. He stays on the line with her until he inevitably falls asleep. 

☆☆☆

“Suit up,” Acxa says, tone non-negotiable. 

Lance reads the room and feels a disturbing amount of expectation. And not the scared kind. 

The Generals were ready and excited for something. It's sort of scary.

“Okay. . .” he says. He takes said suit that's being offered to him, and is surprised to find that it's his Blue Paladin armor. 

So he probably shouldn't be all too surprised, because he's known about this, way before he boarded the ship. But he never thought they'd actually _do_ it, or have the need to.

“So who's playing Blue, er, Red?” He asks. It, of course, goes unanswered. 

The plan is pretty simple. Lotor and his team are pretty recognizable nowadays. Being crowned Emperor tends to do that to you. To temporarily correct this problem Allura had agreed to make artificial -- no the originals, because, ya know, sacredness and all -- to help the team evade notice. Now it’ll look like those Pesky Paladins are at it again, dagnabbit. 

The plan is pretty flawed, but it was all they could do in short notice. 

“This mission must be pretty important,” Lance says, hoping that Acxa will elaborate. He's learned that Acxa seems cold, but she's actually a big softy hidden under her badass purple lipstick and her cool purple hair. She can kill him with her determination alone, but that only makes her and her contrasts seem that more endearing. 

“Let's wait for His Majesty,” She says, which is code for _don't ask questions I don't know the answers to._

Lance, knowing how to take an order here and there, sidles up Acxa, facing two door Lotor always appears through. 

A sleepy Ezor appears out of nowhere, a hand covering her maw as she yawns and stretches. Behind her is Narti, following with measured steps. Ezor goes to her station, a series of computers and functions, leaning against the table. She appears half asleep, but pleased. Obviously she knows something is going on, and she's excited.

Narti follows, posture stiff and steps calculated. Kova pays no mind to her General’s tense demeanor, bathing her paws in a passive aggressive manner cats sometimes do. 

Lotor is fashionably late, eyes alert and determined. The kind of stare that can cut down enemies. (Lance reminds himself to try to withhold any unnecessary snark.) The Prince has his immaculate hair thrown over his shoulder in haste, long locks sweeping to his navel in white tendrils. It looks soft, like it'd be silk between Lance’s fingers. 

Lotor studies each and every one of them. “You're all here. Good. I wouldn't want to have to awaken any of you,” he says, eyes glancing over Lance. 

He takes full offense. “I'm not the one who slept in,” he quips, only to get an elbow to the ribs, courtesy of Acxa. How kind of her. 

Ignoring him completely, the Prince continues on. “This mission is important, more so than the others. It will also be the most dangerous.”

“How so?” Ezor asks. 

Expectant, he answers, “Because it involves multiple counts of treason, along with breaking into one of the most notorious prisons in Galran history.”

Acxa inhales sharply, body going rigid. Ezor has a similar expression, but that of excitement. 

“Well,” Ezor says, “What are a few more counts of treason after all we've done? Narti feels the same way.” 

“I am treason free,” Lance brags.

Acxa slowly exhales. “My lord, may I ask why we are going to be breaking into Nekvur?”

“For the sake of privacy, I cannot. If one of you is captured, Haggar will surely scrape your brain and destroy your mind. I will not risk it.” 

Acxa’s jaw clenches, lips pursed in displeasure. Despite her obvious anger, she chooses to stay silent. 

“There is only one entrance and one exit,” Acxa says. 

Lotor smiles, satisfied. “That's what the general population believes. It actually has three entrances. But, once you're in, you can't get out.” 

The Prince pulls out a good a paper map (surprising, he knows), spreading it out across the only table in the room. He gestures to three points. “Acxa, you take the side on, along with Lance. Ezor will go through the back. Narti and I will be going through the other side, parallel to Lance and Acxa.” 

Once everyone nods and accepts their roles, he continues. “Lance, Acxa, Narti and I will be flanking Ezor for safety's sake, as she will be the one in the most danger. Using the cloaking ability, she will try to force her way into the main database. We can't have to go too smoothly, lest they get suspicious.”

Eyes darting around nervously, Acxa says, “We’ll have to force our way out.”

“Will that be a problem?” Lotor asks not with irritation, but with subtle understanding. He knows why Acxa is acting so strange, and making sure she's up for the mission. 

She swallows. “No, sir.” 

Ezor fist pumps (something that she picked up from Lance) and shifts from foot to foot, quick enough to be considered a dance. She preens, standing taller than ever before. Like walking into possible death is like winning the space lottery. 

“What is our role in this?” Acxa asks. 

Rolling his shoulders, Lance replies, “Didn’t you listen? We're gonna be the good ol’ distraction!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot plots! 
> 
> If you find yourself waiting for an update you should check out my Tumblr prompt series on ao3, or visit my tumblr: lo-tor


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay y'all, this is the chapter where a shit hits the fan. Precede with caution and look at the added tags. If you want to be sure of the possible triggers, they're in the bottom notes because I want everyone to be safe. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta, miss-macabre-grey, for looking through this half dead. Good luck on your thesis!

Lance adjusts his armor, his heart settling. He has missed his Paladin uniform, the fabric against his skin like second nature by now. But now it feels bulky in strange places compared to the General’s uniform, the Paladin’s uniform lighter on his shoulders, his wrists less burdened. 

The Red Paladin armor looks strange on Ezor, like an ill-fitting costume. And perhaps that's what it is. She's too tall. Her head shape too different. Her horn is piled atop her head, tucked away tightly. It looks pretty uncomfortable, and Lance winces in solidarity when Ezor glances at his with a neutral expression. 

“This isn't as glamorous as I expected,” she says. 

Acxa, who is a better fit, sighs as she places the helmet on. “It's not expected to,” she deadpans, “It's a mission, and these suits aren't too well fitting.” 

Scratching the back of his head, he says, “Sorry.”

Ezor shrugs and Acxa looks away, fingers fiddling with her visor. She wears the Green Paladin armor, and if the situation was less tense, he'd laugh at the obvious size difference of Pidge and Acxa. Hopefully the Galran grunts won't notice. 

“Quit complaining. We are lucky to get even a replication,” Lotor says, hair stark against the black of his suit. “Instead think of all the ways this could fail and take measures against it.” 

Lotor looks great in the armor, like it was made for him. Well, it short of was, but that's beside the point. He looks _good_ in it, obnoxiously good. Lance’s face becomes alarmingly warm at Lotor’s raised brow, caught in the act of staring. He tells himself it's because Lotor is in Shiro’s uniform, and it's an imprint sort of thing. He's totally not crushing on the enemy, he just knows a hot person when he sees one. 

_But he isn't the enemy anymore, now is he, Lancey?_ He groans. 

Lotor stands tall. “Let's go. I wish you all a safe return. Let's return with five individuals.”

“Here, here! No one die or I'll kill you if you do!” Ezor says, raising a fist in a type of salute. Like a comrade to another one.

“Let's all keep our insides intact,” Lance says. 

Lotor replies with, “Let's all keep our minds unbroken.”

Acxa, breath a little heavy, says, “Be safe, this place is not to be messed with. Be safe, please.”

The mission begins.

☆☆☆

The prison isn't as big as he assumed it would be. This is no Beta Traz. 

Nekvur is just a small metal box, seemingly floating through space. The outside is patterned with smaller squares, like a big Rubix cube suspended in time. Every few moments the individual cubes would move, shift.

Acxa moves quickly through empty space, her jet pack propelling them forwards at alarming speed. He sees now why she might want to preserve it. She leads them to an opening, deft fingers sifting through the miniscule cracks that Lance has to squint to see. She finds what she needs to, and the small cracks widen, until a barely Lance sized hole reveals itself. 

Lance sort of wants to see how Lotor will manage to get through one of _these._ He won't be happy about those broad shoulders now. 

Acxa reminds him to keep his oxygen going as they enter, the gravity as scarce as before they entered.

As Lance takes in his surroundings, he feels himself shiver. Not only is it freezing inside, but it's eerily silent. The lighting is minimal, the walls and floors and ceilings all one dull gray, reflecting almost no light. It feels as though it is a black hole, one where once you enter, you are just stuck in limbo. 

Almost as soon as they're floating upright do alarms go off. Guns fire, blasting through the wall right next to Lance’s head. His ears ring, eyes blinded by the momentary flash. Once his senses clear, Lance realizes he's been separated from Acxa. 

“Quiznak, quiznak, quiznak,” he mumbles, staying close to the ceiling. The firing seems to have come out of nowhere, and no droids have made their appearance. This leads Lance to believe that the guarding system is automated. 

Over the distant humming of his left ear, Lance can hear heavy breathing over the comms. It's fuzzy, and he can't dare to make a sound, but he can only guess that's it's Acxa. Acxa is lost and panicked, and Lance needs to find her. 

He makes his way slowly, afraid that fast movement will make him a more likely target; slow things are generally not seen as threats, so he'll stick to his plan.

He does a sort of hand stand on the ceiling, slowly but surely making his way through the thin hallway. The only option is to turn left, so he does, eyes focused and on the lookout for anything fishy. What he sees is worse. 

This hall is lined with cell after cells, no larger than the healing pods. There must be some sort of gravity within these cells, as each prison is scrunched up against the floor. 

None of them even seem to notice Lance. Their brief movements are sluggish and confused, breaths shallow and winded. 

They're oxygen deprived. 

The prisons are probably given the bare minimum to survive within these plain walls, trapped in slow motion. Not one of them dares to do anything to waste what little breathable air they have, which ultimately leads to no resistance. It's the perfect prison, the perfect plan. 

A little kid is within one of the cells, looking so much smaller within the small confines in which they're being held against their will. Their shoulders shake, scales glistening against what little light is being omitted within the prison. Something about them screams fragile, from the thinness of the tail to their delicate fingertips. It only takes a minute of observation to realize that they're crying. Wasting their precious air to mourn their freedom. 

Lance wants to throw up. 

“Lotor,” Lance says, risking exposure because he's too numb to the reality of the situation. 

Across the comms is nothing but static. And he hears nothing out of his left ear, a warmth leaking out of it. He doesn't feel the pain. 

Cursing, Lance moves ahead, making sure to not make the mistake of studying the prisoners inside the tiny cubicles. He wants to save them, allow them to breathe as deeply as they want, but he knows he can't. That's not what they're here for, but Lance will always have the image of the child to haunt him, reminding him of his cruelty. 

This isn't Voltron. They're not here to save anyone. 

Over the previously useless comm, Lance hears a whimper, like a bitten off cry. He immediately thinks of Acxa and begins his trek through this horrid place once again. 

Taking a deep breathe, the fresh oxygen from his mask now tasting bitter, he releases a breathy, “Acxa, are you okay? Where are you?” 

As the huffing increases, static lacing through the tones, threatening to be cut off, he pleads, “Acxa, _please.”_

Silence. And then, “I'm-I'm injured. Carry on with the mission.” Acxa’s barely there voice echoes. She's hurt badly. If it was just a flesh wound or a bump on the head, she wouldn't have bothered to answer him. 

He wants to say that since they're just distractions, and he doesn't suppose they can distract machines, so maybe she would be more cooperative; they didn't fail, not yet, because they wouldn't have been able to succeed in the first place. Whatever these things are, they won't go away if he closes his eyes like a little kid. 

He forces himself to calm down. He ignores the throbbing of his ear. He ignores everything. Focusing in on what he can hear, Acxa sounds as though she's enclosed in a tight area. 

That either means she's been captured and locked into one of the cells, which isn't likely as there seems to be no living guards abroad, or she--

She's in one of the vents. Just like their game of hide-and-seek. 

He only found her out of pure luck. He was walking, determined to find Narti, when he heard shuffling of a living kind above him. After few failed attempts at, ya know, getting up to said vent, he found her, a look of civil defeat on her face. She even smiled at him, as tiny as could be. 

Now, at least, he won't have trouble getting to the vents. The problem will be to find the right one in a timely manner. Lance McClain, looking on the bright side, optimistic as an. . .optimistic person. 

His brain scrambles for something to think about, anything else, besides the impending demise of, if not one, but all of them. There is something fishy about the prison. It doesn't look abandoned, or a hundred percent automated. It looks quickly evacuated of all workers, like the half finished card game on the table as he turns another corner. 

The slow pace diminishes a bit of his adrenaline, a pressing throb from his ear warning of the worst to come. It's not unbearable, per se, but it definitely doesn't just tickle. But, then the prison shifts and creaks. The level above the floor Lance is currently on is changing. 

Sticky sweat collects under his suit. His fingers tremble within their tenacious grip on the ceiling, legs going numb from the stress, the shock. His mind is numb as well, for he has an insane amount of puns that seem more important than anything at the moment. Because, as Lance has demonstrated, he compartmentalizes to cope. If Lance is joking then everything is hunky dorey! 

At his abrupt hyperventilation, he hears half hears a soft, “Lance,” which does nothing to calm him down. Maybe it wasn't meant to. He just quickens his pace and asks, “Where are you? Do they others know what's going on?” 

“Close. I can hear you. To your left. And no. Can't get ahold of them. Something is in the way.” Each word, every syllable is clipped, pained. 

Squeezing his eyes shuts, Lance takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax, Shiro style. Not caring, he talks in a normal tone, so Acxa might _listen,_ he says, “Put pressure on the wound. I'll be there as soon as I can.” 

“P-pressure?” 

“I'm assuming that you're bleeding a whole heck of a lot. Put pressure on it, stave the flow off.”

Acxa’s voice is reedy. “Yes, _sir.”_

He sighs in relief. She's still capable of sass. Good sign. 

Lance takes the next left, just as she's instructed, and discovers blood stains. They're subtle, the result of trying to conceal an injury. If he wasn't looking for it, he might've not caught it. 

A purple half palm print is atop a lever. Opening it, Acxa almost spills out. For once, Lance is thankful for the little amount of gravity, or else he might be out of the count. 

“Acxa,” he breathes in shock. It's worse, much worse than he ever imagined. Her armor is completely destroyed on one side, skin stripped away as well, burned and bloody. The blood oozing out in an alarming rate is an indigo color, contrasting the white in her armor. Or, what's left of it. 

Queasy, he says, “Okay, let's um, let's get you out of here.” 

She grips his shoulder tightly. Wheezing, she replies, “No, you're injured as well. Leave while you can.” 

Lance takes a deep breath and holds it. As he slowly releases it, he pictures every way this could all go down. And none of them are pleasant. 

“Well, Space Mom,” he says, jarred by how little he can hear his own voice. “You're just going to have to deal with me being the hero for once.” 

Looking at the wound, Lance feels a grim sense of urgency. He isn't sure how to stop the bleeding, as he has nothing to push into the wound besides his hands, which are covered in debris and his own blood. Still, it's the lesser of the two evils, right? He presses his dominant hand down hard, flinching at Acxa’s sharp intake of breath. He'll tell Lotor to go to the Castleship as quickly as possible, pronto. 

If he listens, that is. 

In his haste to get _somewhere besides here,_ he runs straight into something warm. Squinting, heart rocketing to the point of bursting, his brain stalls.

“Acxa?!” A completely visible Ezor now stands there, frozen in the horror of her fellow General’s injury. It's probably ten times worse for her, seeing such a close friend reduced to such helplessness. 

“Be quiet! There's no way that we're past the defenses!” 

Ezor is taken aback by his order, but she quiets. Her face twists into one of disgust. “What's that smell?” 

Rushing forward, Lance says, “I don't know? My BO, my general sense of doom, Acxa’s despair?” 

“No, I can seriously smell something gross.” 

Acxa is shaking. “Oh, no. I-I thought I smelled something in the vents.” 

Lance sharply inhales. Big mistake. His head feels woozy and heavy set on his neck. “They're gassing us and everything in this building! But, shouldn't our suits filter out anything noxious?! Oh, why am I even asking? Stupid zombie witch!”

“An apt observation.” A strong hand grips his arm, righting Lance’s swaying body, the weight of Acxa across his body making him unsteady. Connected to said hand is Lotor, his pink armor soiled from dust and ash. Narti is right behind him. 

“The gang’s all here.” 

Lotor’s eyes widen as he gives Acxa a once over. “We need to get out of here, _now.”_

“An apt observation,” Lance parrots, woozy. The Generals don't seem to be as affected by the gas so far, so he's sure he can blame his human heritage for that. 

“Ezor, lead the way.” 

“But the only way out will reveal that you're working with Voltron! There's no one else who knows the inside of this prison.” 

Lotor grinds his teeth. “I don't care. Get us out of here.” 

“What will happen to the people here?!” Lance asks, arms shaky. Lotor takes Acxa from his arms, cradling her with a surprising amount of softness. 

“We can't get to them all, Lance,” Ezor replies. She leads them down a series of halls. “Most are probably already gone by now. There's nothing we can do.” 

Lance’s breath shutters. He understands, he does, but his mind is screaming to save all these people, to save the small child who's already accepted their fate. But his body feels as though it might give out at any moment, and he came here knowing he wouldn't be here to help those held within the prison. But he still feels dirty, horrible. 

Along the way they pass the child. Lance makes the mistake of glancing their way. They are looking up this time, eyes directed towards Lotor’s team. Only, they're glassy, unseeing, already succumbing to the poison wafting through the air. They smile, breathing in deeply, accepting the noxious air into their lungs. 

Lance’s lane of sight is blocked by Lotor. He says nothing, just glancing towards Lance briefly before moving ahead. 

Shaking, Lance follows. He's not entirely sure how they escape; one moment he's stunned into silence at the horror of all the lives lost, and the next he's floating through space, anchored only by Lotor’s tight grip on his arm. There could have been a shoot out and still Lance would have been ignorant to it all. 

Ushering him in, Lotor follows, lowering Acxa to the hangar floor. She groans, bringing Lance out of his stupor long enough to send a distress signal to the Castleship, with his signature on it. As per the deal, the coordinates of the Castle are given just in case they can't make it to Lance themselves. 

He shivers, using the rest of his strength to put pressure on Acxa’s wound. 

“Are there _no_ healing pods here?!” He asks blurrily.

Ezor shakes her head. “No. We either die for the Empire or we survive to fight another battle,” she spits, body coiled and ready to strike. She only goes lax when Narti touches her shoulder. If Ezor had tear ducts, Lance knows she'd be crying right now. Without a way for the anxiety and terror to manifest itself physically, her jovial face is scrunched in anger. 

“They'll get here in time,” Lance chants. Over and over again. He's not sure if he believes it himself, Acxa still and cold under his slippery hands. 

He hopes. That's all he can do. He's never felt so useless. 

☆☆☆

Team Voltron makes it in time. Barely. 

Everything is hazy at first. He can hardly remember Hunk lifting him up like a rag doll, the Yellow Paladin noticing the gravity of the situation when Lance doesn't make an inappropriate comment.

He's still shaking. He's still coated in blood, purple liquid leaching into the beds of his nails and the ends of his hair (don't ask him how, he won't be able to tell you.) He's still a bystander as Allura and Coran rush over to Acxa, urgently whispering with Lotor. 

“. . .Lance, you're really freaking me out,” Hunk says, voice cracking. 

“Wha?” He mumbles, voice far away; Lance sort of remembers that there's a reason for this. A strong, broad hand clamps around his thin wrist, dwarfing it. It's enough to give him a little focus, jolt him back into reality. 

Keith is behind Hunk, arms crossed and leg bouncing. He looks conflicted, like he wants to comfort Lance but doesn't know how, or if he's welcome. Wincing, Lance beckons the loner, who kneels beside Hunk. 

“We should be checking to see if you're injured. Hunk, we should be checking Lance for injuries.”

Hunk sighs, almost in tears. “I'm _trying!_ He's a total basket case.” 

“Basket case here and present.” Lance mumbles it, closing his eyes tightly against the brightening expressions. He doesn't deserve them. 

“We should stick him in a healing pod!” Keith says, once again. 

“Well, I still think we should see what's wrong first. . .”

Lance ebbs out of the conversation, gaze flitting to Ezor. Her chest is heaving, panicked breaths shaking the arms of Zethrid. He hadn't noticed the other General come to greet them, but, in hindsight, that'd make sense. 

Narti stays on the edge of any group, a few feet from Lance, tail whipping back and forth like the agitated feline resting on her shoulder. Strange that she isn't the one comforting Ezor. Everyone mourns differently, is all. 

_No, bad, not mourn. There's no one to mourn because we got here in time and everything is totally going to be fine._

Lotor is next to Allura when the Princess escorts them to the dining room. Not the comfiest the place to wait out a storm of this magnitude, but it's a place where everyone fits and, knowing Allura, can be watched with relative ease. 

Lance can tell he's angry. Hurt. Maybe even scared. Lotor isn't immune to emotion, like he projects to everyone he surrounds himself with; he pushes the feelings away, just like Lance. Now they can no longer be ignored, clashing as they meet in an unpleasant embrace upon his face. 

It must have been that face that alerted Lance to something strange. His head may be aching, ears ringing, but his eyes work just fine. He's not the sharpshooter for nothing. 

So when Lotor speaks, voice projecting across the room, he isn't surprised. “How convenient, I'd say. A previously guarded prison is suddenly equipped with weapon machinery and gas chambers. How _convenient.”_

His eyes narrow, sliding away from Zethrid with slippery ease, darting over Lance, hesitating only briefly on Ezor, before landing resolutely on Narti. Strides towards her. 

_“Convenient,”_ he hisses. Grips his sword and lifts it. Allura looks away, face torn with conflict, no plans of interfering. Narti places her arm atop her chest, head bowed. 

The blade glints in the light. Lance can't look away.  
Like an avenging warrior, Lotor lunges. Lance does as well, stepping in front of Narti just in time to parry the swing with his bayard. Fingers stiff from the long period of pressure pressed on Acxa’s wound protest, creaking and groaning from the swift slash. 

His bones grind. He can't absorb all of the force, his body being pushed back into Narti. The General keeps him upright, the fingers gripping his shoulder gentle. 

He hears Allura breathe his name in shock and resigned sadness. Lance still keeps his ground, bracing for another attack just like Lotor taught him. 

But, despite being easy prey, Lotor freezes, shock overtaking his face by way of widening eyes and slack jaw. Gripping his weapon, he grinds his teeth in rage, eyes ablaze. Somehow, Lance doesn't feel scared, nor did he see his oncoming demise. He sees someone who's been betrayed before and is lashing out. 

The question is why? How did he come to the conclusion that is was Narti, and why did she appear to be ready for her death? She could have easily dodged the strike, as she's done many times before. Instead she was ready to welcome her slaughter with a respectful bow. 

He's not sure which one he's more pissed off at. 

“What the _crow was that?!”_ He asks, breathless, lungs threatening to pop. 

“I am well within my rights,” Lotor says matter-of-fact. Cut off. 

Lance gulps in enough air to speak. “Uh, not really, no. Not in someone else's territory!” 

“Don't tell me what I can and can't do, _Paladin.”_ Lotor glares. His eyes are suspiciously gleaming. He spreads his arms wide, as though beckoning anyone to speak against him. “Your precious Princess was going to allow it.” 

Lance glances and confirms what he says to be true. Allura is holding back Keith, while Hunk is frozen in shock, the Princess’s grip on him slack. The expression on her face says it all: she is regretful, but she has already decided the course of action. It's not enough that Lance is in the way. It is well within Lotor’s right to execute his traitor, and anyone who gets between that. 

Beside the three are the Generals. Ezor looks shell-shocked, shaking like a leaf, barely concealed fury lighting up her eyes. Zethrid bares her teeth, but keeps away, not daring to challenge her Prince. 

“Maybe so, but, _dude,_ you have no idea! And even if you somehow do, at least ask why!” He breathes in a deep, calming breath that is not calming at all. Nothing can steady his heartbeat. 

Lance continues. “Think of the information we might get! And, and,” Lance falters. “And Narti would never betray you or the others willingly! Look at the situation as a whole!” 

“Are you suggesting that she is the victim?!” 

Lance shivers, eyes heavy and difficult to keep open. Still, there's danger ahead. “No, I'm saying to cool your jets! Analyze and investigate before _bringing down the ax!”_

Lotor sighs, bringing his empty hand to cradle his forehead in a moment of weakness. His glare could paralyze anyone, but Lance is already frozen still anyway. 

In Lance's fevered mind, he recalls the warnings of what might happen if you challenge a predator, whether on purpose or through no fault of your own. Which is: you're screwed. And Lance fully and purposefully stands in the way of prey, becoming one himself. 

Only, Lotor relaxes minutely. It seems like a tragic miscalculation to sum him up to nothing but a mindless beast, when he's anything but. That's what makes him dangerous.

“You're correct,” Lotor says. Lance blinks slowly. 

Lotor looks pained to have to explain. “You are right. I let my body take over.” He looks at Narti, lips set into a deep frown. “Just. . .take her away,” he says darkly. 

When it becomes clear that Ezor is too distraught to do anything, Zethrid complies, gripping hold of Narti’s forearm with gentle ease. Narti does nothing to fight back, tail gripping her own ankle for comfort.  
Allura follows suit, stepping to Narti’s other side. Kova hisses in her face. 

“We will have her secured. I am just as concerned about a traitor aboard my ship, though not as hurt by it. So, the Paladins and I will suffice.” 

She glances at Keith, who nods and stands behind Narti. Allura says, “Hunk, if you would please take Lance to a healing pod. He is. . .worse than I imagined.” 

“Ah, I'm perfectly fine, Princess,” Lance says, even as his vision is getting progressively darker. There's a steady whooshing sound of his own blood panicking. Crusted on gore is everywhere, reeking of metallic misery. 

Once Hunk’s arms are once again around him, Lance sags, body going limp. But, before it's completely lights out, Lance swears he sees a meaningful glance from Lotor. A fury of barely hidden rage, or gratitude. It doesn't matter either way.

It all burns the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers: Major character injury, prisoner death/gassing, one of which is implied to be young. 
> 
> I'm really nervous about this chapter. Let me know what y'all think!
> 
> Also! I recently made a hate free, pro-shipper Lance blog! Feel free to check it out at: lanceforall.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!!! I am running out of buffer and have been Procrastinating. 
> 
> This is unbeta'ed because I didn't want to nag mine after she's recovering from her thesis, so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Also, I realized that Kova is male, I guess, so hopefully I changed everything accordingly. I won't worry too much because he's a cat lol.

It is so easy to get lost in space. To be set adrift along a sea of dead stars, on your last dregs of oxygen, knowing the end is near. 

That is what it feels akin to. The last tethers have been cut from his waist, oxygen thinning. If Lotor closes his eyes, he'll be done for. He'll cease to exist. Everything he's been planning will deflate and he will truly live up to his title as the family failure. 

He was betrayed in the end. By one of his most trusted Generals, his advisor. His friend. None of it had been tangible, their relationship a simple trick of his mind; all he will be left with is his anger, his hurt, and most of all, his need to destroy. He's held himself to an elegant standard, refusing to lie on the same dirty level of those of his father. 

But, perhaps there is no way to fight dirty without soiling yourself as well.

Lotor stands tall between the healing pods. Acxa, who will be within it for hours, even days, has a pale complexion, soft pink that looks too pleasant to be a precursor to demise. Lance is faring better. Within a few vargas, he should be fully healed. But, unlike Acxa, Lance looks troubled; forsaken from peace even in rest. 

Somehow he's become an important cog of his team, as much as he loathes to admit it. 

Ezor, staring up at Acxa, is a conflicted sight. She worries at her hands, self inflicted wounds and broken nails marring her usual pristine digits. She loves Acxa, but she's in love with Narti. Conflicting emotions and loyalties are at war within her, and not just regarding the betrayal. She does nothing to hide her momentary disdain for him. 

Zethrid is lost. Acxa has always kept her in line when Lotor had not. Narti has been a source of challenge and sisterhood. But, right now, instead of looking within herself and examining her relationships, she snarls at Lotor. 

The blame directed at him is well deserved. He allowed a traitor within their midst; created half of the path of destruction in the wake of these events. But, just as he acknowledges and agrees with their righteous anger, he knows he is not in the wrong. He did what he had to for the betterment of the team, even if said team is blind to it now.

Ezor takes a step closer to Acxa. Turns her back to him. “Would you have done it?” 

“You know well that I would have.” Lotor looks at Lance, at his painful expression. “I punish those who cross my authority. My team. It is not a pleasant part of ruling, but it is a must.” 

He continues, voice directed towards the General. “I am not cruel. I am the righteous one.” 

Ezor snarls, face twisting into a cruel mask of hurt and cruelty. Of hunger and hopelessness. “You are not a ruler of _anything._ You never will be. The only righteous ones here are those who almost died for you.” 

With one last glance towards Acxa, then Lance, she's gone, darting out of the sliding doors. Zethrid quickly takes her place, ears drooping and expression solemn. 

“I sort of agree with Ezor on this one, sir. You were out of line but. . .when I think about it, I can see why you did it. But if you're going to be a ruler, be one that stops and thinks.” 

Even with her still near, Lotor is well and truly alone. For the first time since his initial exile, Lotor regrets. He regrets, and he mourns, for all the bridges he has burned just by being reckless. 

He is more like his parentage than he dares to admit. 

☆☆☆

Hunk is doing two things: sniffling in relief and shaking with rage. 

Relief, because his best friend is alive and well. When Allura alerted them of the distress signal that came from Lotor’s crew, his heart dropped into his stomach and his stomach dissolved his heart into nothing at all. Lance came rushing in carrying someone, his entire front slick with what could only be blood. Hunk thought for sure that he was going to lose Lance in that moment, like a mirage that vanished the closer you got to it. 

Rage, because, well, Lotor is at fault. He allowed Lance to get injured, he allowed one of his _own_ to get hurt. What does that mean about Lance’s wellbeing?! Everything. If you can't even protect those who serve you, how or why would you protect someone who doesn't?

All these thoughts swirl in his head as he stomps down the hallway. Despite Allura’s warnings about going into the healing pod room (“It's private right now. We don't want them to feel trapped while worrying about their teammate,” Allura had said) he makes his way towards it, determined to see Lance for himself. He can't take Coran’s word like law, not when Coran has a different connotation when it comes to, “Well, I reckon he'll be good as new!” 

He _reckons?_ Guesses? No. Nope. Hunk’s anxiety-riddled brain will not allow him to relax until he sees him for himself. Because, Coran’s “good as new” most likely looks similar to putting someone into into a pod, selecting the “light near death experience” option and waiting for it to beep. 

Okay, okay, he's being mean. And totally unfair to Coran. He is their advisor, doctor, motivator, and coordinator, among many other things. Not to mention he just lost his entire race, because to him, this war has been going on for a year. His loss is fresh. 

See! This is why he needs to focus all his frustration and meanness into someone who deserves it. Like Lotor. Because. . .well, Hunk is a horrible person and he needs to get his quiznak together before Lance wakes up. 

He slows in front of the doorway, takes a deep breath, sucks in his stomach, and puts on his Paladin face. 

Ezor is nowhere to be seen. Zethrid is tense, visible fur fluffing in distress. Her sneer is manufactured to let her hide away when her emotions become too much; Hunk has become somewhat close to the General since she came to stay. He almost trusts her, with her comical softness under her tough exterior. He's felt alone since Lance left, and Pidge obsessing over _something_ that she refuses to tell him. Keith and Zethrid have gotten him through, the former making him warm and grossly sappy and the latter making him think immediately of bitter-sweet pastries. 

Her obvious apprehension towards Lotor makes Hunk bristle even more. But, he pauses when he actually glances at the exiled Prince.

Never once in all the glimpses of Prince Lotor has Hunk seen him so, well, human. There's no smug air around him, leaving the atmosphere around him warmer, more inviting. To offset the lack of a mask, Lotor is strung tight, tense. Underneath the Princely exterior, Lotor looks vulnerable; Hunk has to remind himself that this person got Lance hurt. That he might have even have planned it. But, something dampens the angry resolve Hunk had built in his rush to get here. 

Empathy can be a double edged sword. He just can't wield it as effectively as Lance. 

Zethrid isn't surprised to see him. “Now isn't a good time,” she grunts, burly arms crossed. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I just want a few minutes with Lance and the Prince.” 

She begins to size him up before shaking her head, realizing that Hunk isn't a threat. At least, not to her. She gives a long, sad look towards Acxa, expression changing to a different kind of sorrow when she glances at Lotor. Then, she shakes her head again and sees herself out, effectively giving Hunk the floor. 

One of his moms always told him that anger is a secondary emotion; an emotion meant to hide hurt, or sadness. To not allow others to see your weaknesses. Hunk had scoffed. He was a straightforward kind of guy, and he had never relied on such a brute-ish coping mechanism. Now, Hunk understands. His anger is akin to Lance’s avoidance. 

He holds a breath and releases it, the escaping anger deflating him. All of a sudden he's bone tired. 

As he approaches, Lotor gives a resigned sigh. It's pretty dramatic, to say the least. And just like that, Hunk can basically see him run behind the skirt of his title, like a shy child. 

Finally at Lotor’s side, he remains silent. This silence is enough to give Hunk the courage to speak, because Lotor won't. 

As if to spite him, Lotor says, “Have you come here to visit your comrade?” 

Hunk squeezes his eyes shut. No wonder Lance and Lotor get along. 

“Sorta. And, well, to kinda confront you because honestly I have no sense of preservation.”

Lotor shifts minutely, like an aborted fidget. “How daring. I suppose I should be shaking in my boots?” 

Opening his eyes, Hunk forces down a sigh. Yup. Lance and Lotor, a match made in bad-coping-mechanism-heaven. 

“But I figured I could wait until further notice. You do have a ‘comrade’ injured too.” 

Lotor hums. “I suppose. Why did you truly come here, if not to ‘grill me’ as Lance often does?” 

“Er, I just wanted to know if you actually cared about Lance. More than a possible pawn.” 

As soon as he finishes saying the words, Hunk notices a shift within Lotor. In that moment, Hunk can see what Lance must see. Lotor’s faces is relaxed in a forced manner, brows dipping down just shy of disgruntled. He looks insulted, but also expectant. Like he's waiting for a verbal assault. 

The question makes Lotor’s eyes drift from Acxa to Lance, a familiar look of respect taking over his features. Respect, and something else. Something close to affection. It's muted, as though the mere utterance or acknowledgement of these feelings will make them all too real. Lotor averts his eyes before directing his piercing gaze to Hunk. 

Lotor smiles. It isn't one of charm, nor sadness. “Haven't you heard? I am a prince of barren emotions.” 

It strikes Hunk right then. His smile is one of anger. Internal strife wages under his perfected mien of apathy. 

☆☆☆

Lance dreams. He feels cold and stripped from within, bones groaning every time he tries to move. But he has to. On the other side is Narti, waiting to be slaughtered by Lotor, to absolve herself of her betrayal. Why would she betray them in the first place?! It makes no sense, even to this incoherent part of himself.

He sees it all through a blurry lens, frosted over and narrow. Sees Lotor’s grim face, anger blazing the hurt away. Lance sees Ezor frozen in horror as Narti is cut down, Kova spared as he jumps down to lick his paws without a care that his master was just cut down. He sees the team fleeing from someone, someone powerful and cruel and twisted and pleased. 

Who? 

The dream turns into a fevered one, the view narrowing into a pinpoint look from afar. One by one, the Generals fold, betrayal following betrayal. Lotor, alone, fate sealed. 

He sees all his friends perish because he's not there to pilot Red, who is at the forefront of his mind, angry and rumbling. Like a poorly constructed house of cards, the rebellion falls apart, caving in. 

Solace comes at a price. Soon, he realizes the bone deep cold he feels is from the healing pod. His aches slowly healing, vestiges of potent pain released before fading completely, healed. Lance thinks he shouldn't be awake for this, shouldn't be aware of his cells multiplying in great sprints instead of steady jogs. 

Consciousness threatens, maw bared and ready to swallow Lance up. He doesn't have the energy to fight it, so he succumbs. There's a sucking and a crack, and suddenly Lance is falling forward into the reality he so fears. He finds that his landing is surprisingly firm, but soft. 

There's a sharp exhale, and then Lance is being pushed away. A rolling sensation jolts his eyes open, where he finds himself on the floor next to Lotor, who looks surprised. 

“Wha,” he slurs. Lotor sits upright as though Lance’s words electrocute him. 

“I could say the same,” he says. “You woke me by falling on me, it appears.”

Remembering the distinct feeling of falling, Lance coughs to cover up a drunk-punch giggle. “‘ou sleep standing up? Horse?”

“Did you just call me a horse?” Lotor asks. His tone is the tired haughtiness of keeping up appearances. 

As Lance’s vision clears, he sees how rumpled Lotor is. Not of appearance, exactly, but of mind; his hair, discarded in a loose ponytail, has not a strand out of place. He is stripped down to his undersuit, black against pale purple skin. His eyes are what really surprise Lance, distant and sharp at the same time, like a dull knife that can only bruise, no matter how much it wants to draw blood. 

He blinks hard, and within those few seconds the look is gone, hidden away. “Acxa?” 

Lotor stiffens. “She is still healing. We don't know when she will awaken.” 

Lotor doesn't answer when he asks, “Narti?” 

Lucidity colors Lance’s consciousness, and he waits for hurt or embarrassment to take up all the room within his mind. But, laying here next to Lotor, he feels strangely calm. Not relaxed, truly, but seeing with clarity. It might just be the aftereffects of the healing pod, but Lance just goes with it.

Speaking of healing pods, “How long was I out?” 

“I am. . .unsure of the passage of time.” 

Lance smiles lightly at that. “Were you being a worry wart the entire time?” 

He knows that something is wrong when Lotor doesn't reply with something witty. Lance just called him a wart, for that matter, and nothing has been said. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

The emotion on his face is as startling as it is saddening. His eyes widen and his mouth parts, creating the appearance of surprise, and within those hybrid eyes, something akin to wonder. Lance knows, with one hundred percent certainty, that Lotor hasn't been asked such a common phrase in a long time, if ever. Something aches within Lance’s chest. He ignores it, because this isn't about him. 

He waits for answer, because he knows well enough that the silence will be the most likely motivator to use his words. If there's one thing that Lotor and Lance both hate with a passion, besides Zarkon and his minions, is awkward, drawn out silences.

Lotor barks out a laugh. “Oh, yes, I am perfectly comfortable with the situation at hand. My Generals are either afraid of me, traitors, or injured.” Lotor gives a long look towards him, letting Lance know that he's been included within these terms. Well, hopefully just the latter. “And my ever so gracious father now knows that I too am of traitorous roots.”

Lance hums. “At least these Generals are still here. They didn't flee into the nearest travel pod.”

“Because they are waiting for you and Acxa to properly heal, I conclude.”

This makes Lance roll his eyes. They stick too uncomfortably against his eyelids. “Let's look on the bright side: your Generals stayed, you no longer have to deal with your daddio politely, and Team Voltron now knows that you're on our side completely. Trust has been broken, I know, we gotta work on that, but we also all survived.”

“Your ability to be so positive while I wish to glower is unsavory.” 

Lance winks. “That just means I'm sweet.” 

When Lotor doesn't deny such claims, nor snort at how insufferable he is, Lance shifts, once again gazing into Lotor’s eyes.

There's a small, miniscule smile on Lotor’s lips, a lightness to his brow, like a bow string once pulled tight, now released. 

“I suppose you are.” 

Lance’s cool cheeks warm, and it's probably because of the temperature change, going from cool sterile healing pod, to slightly less cool sterile environment. Yep. Definitely. 

With regret, he asks, “Um, well, how is Narti?” _Is she still alive?_

Lotor’s lips tighten. He refuses to meet Lance’s eyes in a way that tells Lance he's ashamed, or at least regretful. 

“She lives. Your tiny friend suggested keeping her in a plain room without Kova.” Lotor sits up, adjusting his hair with a dismissive flick. “I don't regret my actions, I regret my haste. The other Generals are. . .hurt.” 

Lance follows Lotor, sitting vertically. His vision swims, little pins fluttering in his vision from the blood flow. “Well, yeah, I can see why. You almost killed their friend, and comrade. You went about it wrong.” 

“So you don't think me savage for my actions?” He raises a brow, Lotor gesturing for Lance to answer. Impatient.   
“Nope,” he says, just because he knows the word rankles the prim Prince. With a more serious note, he elaborates, “I do think you needed to slow your roll, which is why I got in front of her.” Lance contemplates. “Huh, I'm surprised you're not mad at me for that.” 

Lotor turns to Lance, gripping his left hand within his. His palms are surprisingly warm against his cold one, and Lance has to suppress shiver. The Prince brings Lance’s finger to his now bowed head, pressing the tips his forehead.

“Please accept my thanks, for I can never repay you for what you did. You stopped me from doing a thing I swore to never do: hurt the few I truly care about in an impulsive manner.” 

“Uh,” Lance draws, mouth hanging open. Lotor, Prince of the Galran Empire, just thanked Lance. In fact, Lance is pretty certain that he thanked Lance in a very. . .formal way. A thanks that is hard to come by. A form of respect, _trust,_ as Lance could easily claw Lotor’s eyes out, or grip his hair and get a dirty advantage. 

His chest feels about to cave in, and for the first time, not out of grief nor hurt. He's proud, of himself, and the feeling is so foreign that he can hardly recognize it. Lotor is sincerely thanking him. 

Lotor _trusts_ him. It's a heady knowledge, one that could get him drunk. 

“No problem. I didn't want her to die, because I know she didn't mean to!”

Lotor lifts his head, but his eyes stay downcast in resignation. “Perhaps,” he says, obviously dismissing this in the sight of such blatant betrayal. 

“No ‘perhaps’ about it. Narti wouldn't do something that could put people in risk, especially Ezor, if she could help it. And she was about to let you cut her down clean, which, last I checked, is not the sure signs of cold-blooded disregard.” 

Lotor purses his lips in what can only be exasperation. It's not an angry look, but one lined with a cruel sort of tiredness. Like he'd do anything for this situation to be over with, done. Lance plans to rectify the matter. 

“I will think it over,” Lotor replies tightly. 

Lance rolls his eyes, “ _Come on,_ don't think, act!” 

Lotor smiles, this time not so kindly, lips edged in bitterness. “Didn’t you just tell me to ‘slow my roll’? Is that how you handle most everything? Thoughtless action?” 

Lance bristles, the warm and fuzzy being drowned out by the insecure feeling that's latched onto him like a particularly fat tick. “I know when to act and when to think. I'm not the impulsive idiot everything thinks I am.”

Deflating, Lotor sags, like a popped balloon. His expression is filled with ironic callousness. 

“I apologize,” he says softly. Regretfully. “I didn't mean to insinuate you are daft. I have no excuse, but I have been very taxed emotionally as of late.”

It's Lance’s turn to be soft. He imagines rounded edges filing down its counterparts sharp ones; not changing it with its own want and will, but being the buffer that those made of points need if they don't want to cut themselves and others. 

“I guess I'll let it slide this time. But one way to deal with _emotions,”_ Lance makes a face at the word, “is to, like, get them out. I think that's your issue, one of them at least. You have too much control over your thoughts and emotions that they're getting hungry.” 

“That's a strange way of putting it.” 

Lance shrugs. “But it's true! You gotta use it before you lose it, or you won't have a happy bone in your body, ever again.”

“You speak as though I ever had a happy bone in the first place,” Lotor replies dryly, probably because if he didn't, it'd sound rung out and flimsy, like a cheap suit. Bravado only goes so far. 

Despite the tension coiled around Lotor, Lance decides to get closer. To him, comfort is being close, and closeness is comfort, and if Lotor trusts him, he must like him at the very least. Lance isn't sure you can put your trust in someone without first liking them, or maybe the other way around. 

Despite his obvious movements, Lotor says nothing, only getting this vague look on his face as though an idea has come to mind that he doesn't like. 

“They don't trust me. They never have.”

There are thousands of ways that he could possible word his response, full of empathy and wisdom and righteousness. In the end he says the first thing that comes to mind, as instinctual as breathing. “Duh.” 

Lotor is taken aback. “Pardon?”

“Duh, Lotor. You don't tell them anything! You haven't even told us what we were risking our lives for. Being too closed off is a leadership flaw, because to put our faith in you, we first need to know what's going on up in that head of yours. Before blind faith comes seeing. . .faith, I guess.”

Lotor bares his teeth, but Lance doesn't feel threatened. It's obvious he's warring with himself. It’s then when Lotor asks, “Why did you choose in the stay with under my command? Why not stay with Voltron?” 

Noticing the lack of space between them, Lance shrugs, their shoulders brushing. “Well, the first time I didn't choose. You and your team kinda double kidnapped me.” 

“Cheeky.” Lotor gazes as him. The entire atmosphere feels intimate and fragile, the dimness aiding the warm feeling. The closeness. 

Lance almost doesn't speak. Why should he? Everything he does screams goofy, unable to take things seriously and as soon as he speaks, the accepting nature in Lotor’s posture will dissipate, closing, shutting Lance out. And this time, he can't fathom the thought of prying him back open when Lotor inevitably does. 

But, he won't know until he tries, is Lance’s motto. Better to speak your thoughts and face ridicule than to let them stew in the juices of your own self-doubts, no matter how disgusting it sounds. 

“I feel. . .anonymous. Anonymous but seen at the same time. That doesn't make sense, does it?” Lance kicks his legs, hands clenched into fists as they're shoved into his lap. 

“You haven't lost me yet. Continue.” 

“Well.” It's funny that once at the center of attention, he clams up. “Well, with you and the Generals, I'm just Lance, former Paladin of Voltron. I'm the Lance that saved Acxa, who trusts Narti. I'm the Lance that actually helps and is useful. Before I was just Lance the goofball, the selfish one. Mediocre pilot extraordinaire.” 

Lotor puts on his thinking face, the plane of his prominent forehead folding under the pressure of his eyebrows. Any other time this observation would send Lance into spiels of laughter. Now it just highlights the importance of this conversation. 

“In my opinion, if it means anything at all to you, is that you were always our Lance. Any flower can bloom under the right conditions. It's finding those specific conditions that is the difficult part.” 

Lance relaxes, flopping back onto the floor on his back, arms padding his head. Kicking ceased, Lance folds his legs for no reason other than a nervous tick. “Anyone ever told you you're like, super wise?” 

A laughing exhale escapes Lotor. “I should hope so. I am ‘super old’ as I've been told.” 

Lance snorts. “Yeah, you do have a few years on me. I like to feel anonymous, but I also feel guilty for needing to in the first place. My friends might be super talented geniuses, but it doesn't mean I should leave or hold it against them. If I were completely honest with them, they'd be horrified by how I feel.” 

Lotor follows him to the floor, making the ridiculous descent appear elegant and completely natural. He doesn't use his arms for a cushion, instead turning to face Lance. 

Smelling faintly of fresh soap, Lotor is ever closer. Much closer than Lance first thinks. 

“It's perfectly normal, you know. To be jealous or angry at someone and still. . .care for them. I'm not the Prince of Daibaazal for nothing.” He smiles ruefully. “I still care for my parents, deep down, in my own twisted way. The version of them that was still alive all those years ago. I may hate their actions, ever condemnation, but I was once their child. I remember the good times as well as I remember the bad.”

“Well,” Lance concedes, “My friends are saints a billion times over compared to your zombie heritage. No offense.”

His smile loses its wistful tinge. “None taken. But my point still stands. Anger is a natural reaction, a secondary emotion.” 

“And my great pioneering emotion is inadequacy. Great. Annnnd, I shouldn't be complaining anyway, not while,” he glances at Acxa, her face blank and skin sallow. “Not while others don't have that luxury.”

Lotor does something amazing, incredible, commendable. _He rolls his eyes_ and says, “Acxa isn't so petty as to wish discomfort on others who are undeserving of such vex.” 

He shrugs, Lance speak for _that sounds fake, but okay,_ and ventures onto other topics besides himself. “What are we going to do when she wakes up? How are we going to explain?” 

How were they going to tell Acxa that one of her own almost got her killed, extenuating circumstances or not? He can't imagine the pain and the disbelief. Lance just hopes that she doesn't immediately blame and distrust Lotor, especially when she learns of Lance’s daring intervention. She'll be doubly angry, because he's pretty sure she's kind of protective of him in her own way. 

Suddenly he understands Lotor’s fixed expression of sourness. He knows as well as Lance does, _more,_ that Acxa is extremely loyal. And from bits and pieces that Lance has picked up, she has reasons for latching onto others so tightly. She's like a slightly ajar door, just asking you to peek, when you know well that your chances of getting a finger accidentally smashed is high. 

Running a hand through his hair, Lotor stares at the floor. It takes everything for him to admit, “I don't know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! If you do please tell me why, because I'm going to need all the motivation I can get to finish this lol. 
> 
> My new Lance positivity blog is @lanceforall. 
> 
> Love you guys, and again, sorry for the wait!!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait yall!!! Been uninspired and sick lately. And, I've become a mod for a few fandom events that's kept me busy! 
> 
> This was written before s5.

Lance wakes up before he even realizes he fell asleep in the first place. Once his eyes adjust to wakefulness, he notices Lotor sleeping next to him. Not having the heart to wake up his exhausted friend, he slowly rises and manages to get up with very little noise. If it was any other situation, he'd probably fist pump in victory and somehow accidentally knee Lotor in the process. 

But he doesn't do this. Instead, he searches for what woke him up, and finds a very still Hunk standing some yards away. A still Hunk is not a stable Hunk, because in his natural habitat, a Hunk is almost if not as twitchy as Lance. 

Gesturing, Lance leads Hunk out of the pod room, stopping in front of the door. This way, they should be far enough away to not wake Lotor, but close enough that Lance can stand guard. Hunk finally breaks and goes from toe to toe, fiddling with his fingers. He seems to give up and lunge at Lance, scooping him up in a tight hug. It's nostalgic, to be in such a welcoming and warm embrace; it's been awhile since Lance has been able to appreciate such biceps. 

There's no loud sobbing, no grumbling mutters. Hunk just holds him slightly off the ground for a few minutes before letting him down. Setting Lance down, Hunk looks at Lance with a haunted expression. It's then that he knows he's missed some pretty important events. 

When it's clear Hunk isn't going to speak first, he does. “I've missed you, buddy.” 

“You have no idea, Lance,” Hunk replies. He only ever uses Lance’s name like this in serious situations. “You have no idea how much we missed you.” 

“How. . .how's Pidge? She seemed really upset over the comm. . .” 

“Well,” Hunk says, pausing as his eyes glaze over. “You've missed a few things, that's for sure.” 

Lance avoids his eyes after that, the weight of his long absence threatening to crush him. “And I fully intend to make up for lost time. But can you do me a favor?” 

Hunk sighs his deep bodied sigh, mien slipping into something familiar. Exasperation. 

“What do you want me to do? I'm not going to save your butt this time, though,” Hunk warns, as if he isn't going to be at Lance’s rescue if the need arises. 

“It'll be simple, I promise.” 

Hunk looks as though he knows he just made a big mistake, but being the best bro a person could have, he follows where Lance leads. 

☆☆☆

And it is simple! Super simple! It takes a little time to convince Hunk, debate spoken in mutual hushed whispers, but they come to an agreement. Hunk will stay by the pod room, making sure to note when Lotor awakens, which, by then, Lance intends to be too far into his plan to be stopped. 

Lance knows he just preached about trust and faith and the like. He _knows_ he's being hypocritical, but Lance has never bragged about not being an idiot. It isn't like he's leaving the ship, he tells himself. He's just going to visit a fellow teammate and get things smoothed out: whoop, bam, pow, and everything will be back to normal. Besides, ya know, Zarkon probably calling for Lotor’s limbs to be removed from his sockets. 

He needs to lighten up. 

But before he can do his magic, he needs backup in case things go south. He's not a complete noob. 

“I really do not like this,” Zethrid rumbles, arms crossed over her chest as she sulks. Lance might not know her as well as the others, but he knows reluctance when he sees it. 

Lance shrugs as he sneaks around his own Castleship, passing his room and his comfy bed with soft blue sheets. But, mission first, sleep second. 

“You don't have to,” he replies, channeling his inner Keith. 

“She's my comrade too!” 

Shushing her, he replies with, “Aww, you consider me a comrade!” 

That shuts her up pretty quickly. 

She lowers her volume. “I still don't understand why you don't have Ezor do this.”

“Because I know Ezor has to be pretty cheesed off right about now. I don't want her. . .romantic inclinations to cloud her judgement, and holy crow I just sounded like Lotor. That is really scary. I can't believe that came out of my mouth. Please, tell me if my skin starts to turn purple and I start rocking white hair.” 

Zethrid gives him a slightly puzzled look, reminding him that she isn't the best General to appreciate his sarcasm. Besides, he should really be quiet right about now. 

“Turn right,” Zethrid whispers-yells, her usual volume. Lance follows her directions until they come to a heavily guarded door. Or, well, heavily guarded by Voltron’s standard. 

Lance plasters on a smile that seals away his silent screams. Because, of all people, it just has to be _him_. 

He sidles up next to Kolivan, acting as though he has a right to be here. And, hopefully, Kolivan agrees. The dude is pretty cool, for being a part of a secret society that believes in knowledge or death. So, he's a little too serious for Lance, but all around he's a worthy ally that Lance really respects. 

“Kolivan!” Lance greets. “Nice to see you again. Looking as warrior-y as usual.” 

Kolivan gives Lance a brief nod of recognition, but looks as though he's bracing himself for something. Lance just knows there's been stories told of him to make the dude look so weary. Or, more realistically, he can tell Lance has “bad” intentions and knows of his time with Lotor and Co. 

“Hello,” Kolivan returns. “What are your intentions?” 

Quiznak. “Well, see, I wanna talk to Na-, I mean, the prisoner.” 

Kolivan shakes his head, eyes speaking of exasperation. That's okay, that's good. Lance can work with exasperation. 

“I just want to talk to her. See why she did it, because I saw her as a comrade up until she betrayed us all,” Lance half lies. He doesn't have to pretend, eyes darting to the floor and quickly back up to look into Kolivan’s eyes, which soften for just a moment.

“I am sorry, Paladin. But this prisoner is a flight risk, for she can control minds with just a touch.” 

Lance grits his teeth. “Do you think I don't already know that? Besides, the brain mojo doesn't work on me.”

Kolivan sighs, eyes searching for a lie. When he doesn't find one, his face twists up into an expression akin to regret. Regret for an action he hasn't committed yet. 

Seeing a moment of weakness, Lance barrels through before Kolivan can think it through. “Trust me, it doesn't work on me. And, you'll be here the entire time! You'll stop her if somehow she overpowers me.” 

“You have a quarter varga.”

“Thank you,” Lance says sincerely. Kolivan reaches over and turns to open the door. But, before he does this, he grabs Lance’s forearm gently, only tight enough to keep him in place. 

“Do not make me regret this. I am placing my trust in you, Paladin. Considering your recent associations, I am wary.” 

Lance shoves any anger he has on behalf of Lotor down. He doesn't like the feeling of that righteous anger, because he knows that Kolivan has every right to be suspicious of Lotor. Instead of voicing how he should truly give the exiled Prince a chance (emphasis on _exiled_ ) he just nods with finality and walks over the threshold. 

The room is nothing like the Paladin’s bedrooms; it's bare, lacking any furniture, including a bed. Every wall is made of metallic disregard for comfort, looking as cold and barren as any Galran prison, only lighter, cleaner, edges softer and light not as severe. It's a room not meant for comfort, but not built for cruelty, either. 

Narti sits in the corner, arms wrapped around her legs, which are pressed against her chest. Her tail is coiled around her like a shield, face downcast. Lance realizes that she can't see without Kova, who has been confiscated for obvious reasons. She has to feel so vulnerable and fragile, to not be able to know her surroundings, or even her location.   
Maybe, they are a little cruel. 

Her head tilts as the door closes behind Lance, making him realize that if he's totally wrong and Narti is actually a cold hearted traitor, could kill him in seconds before the others even know something was wrong. Which, they wouldn't, because he told no one but Hunk, who is on the other side of the Castleship. 

But she's not a cold hearted traitor. He knows it.   
“Hey, Narti,” he says, voice echoing hollowly through the room. 

She raises her head, tilting it in Lance's general direction. It hurts that she can't even look at him, nor even know exactly where he is due to the horrible echo of the room. And now it makes sense why Allura chose this room. It more than strips her of her eyes, but of her ears as well. 

He walks towards her in slow, measured steps, as to not alarm her. It's the second time he's seen any of the Generals so vulnerable; first Acxa, blood slick against his skin, and now Narti, reduced to a blind mute with no way to communicate. 

Unless, Lance thinks, _unless_. . .

“I trust you, just to get that out there. I don't think you did it of your own free will. And you have no way to defend yourself, do you?” 

Narti shakes her head, making no movements to stand, nor attack him. He feels a little smug about it, if his emotions weren't clouded like a dirty mirror. He gets close enough to her that he looms in front of her, a position that will never feel right nor empowering. 

Sitting next to her, criss-cross, he reaches for her hand, fingers grazing her skin before she jerks back wildly.

“It's okay, Narti. It's okay. You can't control me, but you can speak to me this way, can't you?” 

She nods, keeping her claws away from Lance's delicate skin as she takes his hand in hers. The loose grip is easy to break, a kind of insurance that she wants to give him. 

He tightens his grip, and plunges. All at once, he slam hit with emotions, thoughts, and visions, all edged in black, recalled from memory. Lance jerks back at the sensory overload, Narti’s hand still in his grip, and feels her immediate remorse through their connection. 

It's strange in this space built by her mind, tangible yet out of reach; he can't exactly hear her speak, nor does she directly talk to him, but her thoughts come across in rapid session. 

“I'm fine,” he says, trying to laugh off his dizzy confusion of being within another being’s mind. “You just, gotta slow it down. Lancey here is good at many things, but this is his first foray into something like this. Well, there was this one drill Allura had us do -- ya know what, we don't have time for my glorious escapades right now. Kolivan will be busting down the door soon. Just start from the beginning.” 

Things go blank, so much so he closes his eyes to focus on the pictures in front of him. A younger Lotor is standing in front of Narti, the only sign of his youth being told by the short length of his hair and the relaxed way in which he holds himself. He sees battles fought and won, the years going by as Lotor’s hair grows and grows, mien becoming colder and colder. Then he sees Lotor leading Narti at his side, into what appears to be Zarkon’s ship. Haggar, of course, is there, her disapproving air reeking of discontent. This is the first time Narti hears the whispers in her mind. 

She knows that Kova could very well be the link between Haggar and the voices, but she admits that she was too selfish to part with the seeing eye feline. She ignored the increasingly loud demands, in return savoring her sight while she could. 

He sees Ezor from her eyes, soft and sweet and savage, a delicate flower that can poison with a single touch. He feels her love for the General, the love warm within his chest. Narti loves the other Generals, even Lotor, but she loves Ezor above all. 

The straw that breaks the so called camel's back is Lance himself. He winces at how she sees him at first, as a challenge who can shrug off her ability as though it were nothing. ( _Lance disagrees on the nothing part._ ) But, then, she reassess her opinion when she sees how Ezor takes to Lance and the others, and later, how Lotor softens.

( _Woah, woah, woah._ ) 

Lance’s appearance means that their plan to give Voltron up was in motion, but Haggar doesn't take long to realize she's being double crossed, and buckles down her efforts of manipulation. When the druid sees weakness, she exploits it. And while Narti is otherwise distracted, her grip on her mind slips. She's plunged into purple, her knowledge an endless library of treachery for Haggar to abuse.

“I'm so sorry, Narti. All of this is my fault,” Lance tries to say, but gets interrupted by an insurgence of anger, directed not at him, but at his ability to see fault within himself in every situation.

_Touché_ , he thinks when he sees how much Narti has struggled, how much she regrets her involvement and wishes Lance would have let her be delivered to her retribution. 

“Yeah, that won't be happening. Not while I'm around.”

Lance knows that if Narti could smile, she would be right now. 

He almost hears an echo of a voice through his mind. It sounds mournful, like the person can't let themself hope for a future. Lance plans on changing that.

Lance is going to do what he has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what y'all think! Sorry it's so short, I'm running out of pre-written buffer!

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know what you think! See you this time next week (hopefully.)
> 
> Feel free to talk to me! My personal tumblr is @lo-tor! Love y'all!


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